The Battle Frontier: A Brendan and May Adventure
by Br33zy
Summary: A Moment of Melancholy- Hot Chicks!: Brendan is feeling bad for himself  because that's not something new  but something makes him completely forget all about it.
1. Brendan Birch: Boyfriend Extraordinaire

**The Battle Frontier: A Brendan and May Adventure**  
><em>Let's write our histories one sentence at a time<em>

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><p><strong>Rated<strong>: T (PG-13) for explicit language, violence, and sexual innuendo  
><strong>Genre<strong>: Adventure/Humor  
><strong>Verse<strong>: Generation III/IV, Games (RuSaEm/DP)

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><p>First off, everyone say happy eighth birthday to HLBMA! It was eight long years ago that HLBMA gracedcursed this site. I couldn't think of any better day to start its sequel while honoring the prequel. Anyway, welcome to ... whatever that long-as-hell-title says up there or BFBMA for short.

Like its predecessor and maybe even more so for the latter category, BFBMA is still an adventure 'fic with slight twinges of humor and parody and is, overall, "lighthearted." It is continuous from the last story; you might need to know what happened at the end of HLBMA to know what's going on here, like why Brendan is in his current position along with his Team Magma past (and the OT Chris), but for the most part, I feel like this is relatively standalone. The HLBMA tie-ins are a relatively small part of the story; what's important to know is that Brendan done-goofed and is trying to start over. I also realized I dropped the ball when it came to May at the end (the story literally became Hoenn League: A Brendan Whining Fiesta in the league arc) so I will be giving each character their own separate issues to work out and their own screen time like I used to do.

Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Brendan Birch: Boyfriend Extraordinaire<strong>

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><p>It wasn't his fault he got seasick. It wasn't his fault he had paperwork up the wah-hoo. And it definitely wasn't his fault that he was on lock down. But as Brendan stood there, cringing at the livid look his neighbor gave him, he couldn't help but feel like it was.<p>

"What do you mean you're not going?" the girl demanded to know. There was no vocal answer; Brendan smiled innocently and shrugged his shoulders, red eyes gleaming in the sun. It made her all the more furious, her right eye twitching, her hands balled into fists. "Brendan Robert Birch, you answer me right now!"

The boy tilted his head to the left and shrugged his left shoulder, pressing his ear against it. His brow furrowed. "The word 'go,' a verb, often defined as 'to move or travel,'" he began, brow relaxing the further he spoke. He straightened his head. "'You're,' the contraction of 'you are' with 'you are' being 'I am' in this case. 'Not,' an adverb, used to express negation, denial, refusal. Therefore with my powers combined I, Brendan Birch, am not going."

His saucy remark was answered with a punch in the arm that made him step back. "Be serious!" she yelled. She put her hands on her hips, her fingers pressing against the band of her dark denim shorts, her sneaker tapping the dirt trail impatiently. "What do you mean you're not going?"

"Well, he told you before a few days ago. I'm not sure why you don't believe him–"

The girl quickly snapped her head to the left and glared at the boy standing behind her, making him jump back. "You stay out of this," she grumbled.

"Yes, ma'am." The other boy meekly saluted her.

Her head snapped back toward the nervous white-haired trainer in front of her who was currently staring at his untied shoelaces, arms limp by his side. "Well? Are you going to answer me?"

He looked at her for a few seconds, contemplating, his tongue rolling around in his mouth. He crossed his arms in front of him, pressing his thumbs in the crooks of his arms. "May, I am ..." How could he phrase it politely? He smacked his lips together. "My dad's on my ass, May. The pokédex data I collected over our journey is so messed up right now. I gotta revise it and all that fun stuff. I just don't have the time for it."

This caught the attention of the boy standing behind the fuming May. "You have a pokédex? I didn't know you were under a pokémon researcher apprenticeship," he commented, curious, raising an eyebrow.

Brendan dug around in the pocket of his shorts and pulled out the red, square device, the plastic covering flashing before the other boy's eyes. "Sorta. Right now it's like I'm under internship for an apprenticeship. I'm applying for the real deal now. It's something I wanted to do since I was in school. They prefer if you have traveling experience." He sighed, pocketing the 'dex.

"Really? You have one?" the other boy repeated. He blinked rapidly a few times and scratched his head. "It's not like I've seen you pull it out a lot. How do you even have data in the first–"

"Wally!" May whined, interrupting him.

"I'm just sayin'." Wally pointed his head up, staring at the Hoenn sky. Gray clouds merged with white in huge, shapeless puffs. The wind teased his bangs, lifting them from his forehead. "Have you seen him pull it out? I mean, you've been traveling with him for a year, and he pulled it out, like, once? Like at the beginning of the adventure? Like when he thought it was important to do that sort of thing but realized how redundant that action would be? I mean, who really pays attention to that?"

"How do you know that?" Brendan muttered, eyes shifting to the side.

May brushed off the green-haired trainer's ramble. "Look, that's not what's important."

"Tell that to my dad," argued Brendan, crossing his arms, the bottom of his black shirt flapping in the breeze. He stared off into the distance, eyes resting on the street corner where the dirt path and concrete sidewalk merged. A metal street sign was planted there with two blue metal slates pointing south and east, indicating the name of the dusty lane or the more refined concrete walkway. "He's been on me to apply for months now. I managed to hold off on it because we were busy with the Hoenn League, but since I have virtually been doing nothing for a couple weeks, I'm stuck."

"C'mon, Brendan." May took a few steps forward and grabbed for Brendan's hand. She swung their entwined hands back and forth. "It'll be so much fun, and it's only for a week. You know you want to go." She looked up at him through her eyelashes, eyes glimmering in the sunlight. "Please?"

"May ..." Brendan leaned over and pressed his forehead against the girl's, the cloth of his bandanna soft against her skin. "You know you're my only kind-of-sort-of-not-really girlfriend, right?" he asked, red eyes staring into her blues ones.

"Yes," she replied softly, rubbing her lips together.

He gently made their bodies sway from side to side. "And you know I'd do anything for you, right?" He let go of her hand and placed it on the small of her back, gently massaging it.

"You two realize this sort of talk induces vomiting in others, right?" asked Wally with an eye roll.

"Yes," said May with a smile.

"Was that to my question or to Brendan's?"

"Sooo ..." Brendan let the word drag on. By now, both of his arms were wrapped lightly around May's waist. "If I would do anything for you, you should let me slide on this one," he murmured, "because I can't go."

May immediately released herself from Brendan's grip and stomped the ground, kicking up dust. "You're so ... ugh! Annoying!" was her declaration. "I don't have time for this! I've got to get my luggage!" With another loud stomp, she swiveled on the balls of her feet, twisted around, and walked away, back stiff and fists straight at her side. Classic pissy march. Both boys watched as May's form descended down the dirt trail and back onto the concrete as she headed toward the rows of nearly identical homes. The twittering of taillow replaced the echoing of her stomps.

Wally, an amused spectator throughout this, hooked his thumbs on his belt loops and turned his head, looking at the rolling green hills that bordered the south side of the small city. "You know, Brendan," he began, "you knew about this trip for a while, but you waited until now to work on your apprenticeship?"

Brendan sighed, looked around, and nudged his head in the direction of a wooden fence that bordered a field with grass that hadn't been trimmed in weeks. (He kept meaning to get on that, but he had more important tasks to keep up on, like sleeping in and playing with the newly hatched starter pokémon.) He walked over toward it and swung his legs over the fence, holding onto it to keep himself balanced and ignoring the wood splinters that dug into his palms. Wally followed him but didn't bother sitting, opting to lean against it instead, one leg crossed in front of the other.

"Things have been ... tough lately," Brendan replied, staring at the dandelions that grew along the fence's posts. He kicked at one, and the white seeds exploded from the stem, twirling around his ankles before taking off into the air. "I've been trying to mend things."

Wally picked at his fingernails, head lowered. "Why?"

"I told you about that letter, right?"

"Vaguely."

Brendan readjusted the bandanna on his head before reaching for his belt and unclipping his red and black pokénav from it. He opened and closed the covering, listening to the satisfying clicks each movement produced. "I guess the idea behind it was starting with a clean slate. No more trying to hide what I had done on my journey, or why Muddy is wearing that silly bandanna on his tail"–he motioned toward his swampert a few yards away who was lounging at the edge of the makeshift pond his dad had created for pokémon–"or ... anything. The first person I had to get that through to was me. The second was my dad."

Wally lowered the stuffed backpack from his shoulders and nestled it between his sneakers. "Okay, but what does that have to do with the letter?"

"I thought a letter would be a bit more ... personal–"

"Meaning you were too chicken to do it in person."

"Yeah." Brendan narrowed his eyes and looked at the windmills, tall, white pillars that kept a soft but constant breeze blowing through town. "I wrote him a letter – that letter was so ... bad fan fiction now that I think about it. Like the 'end to all endings' sort of thing. Like a cheap gimmick where the author had no idea what to do and tried to sum up everything in a few pages. Like rain on your wedding day. Like the good advice you just didn't take. Where was I going with this?"

"You wrote him a letter," Wally muttered. "Then you started describing cheap endings in fan fiction. Then you suddenly transitioned to that song 'Ironic.'"

"Right. Anyway, I wrote him a letter explaining what I had learned during my journey and what I had done."

"Okay," his friend replied airily.

"What I had done, Wally," he said with more stress.

"Okay," Wally replied in the same tone from before, flicking something off his thumb.

"What I had done–"

"Yeah, yeah," his friend grumbled. "I heard you the first time. No need to sound like a broken record. Does anyone still listen to those? Is that simile still applicable in today's time?"

Brendan sighed again, looking out toward the field, watching a flock of taillow fly from the tops of one tree to another. He was still fiddling with his pokénav, rolling the device in his hand like a bar of soap. "Needless to say, it did not go well."

"Which part?" asked Wally.

Brendan paused, throwing his pokénav between his hands. "Um, most of it?" he replied lightly but questionably, rolling his eyes. "Probably the Team Magma thing. Oh, it could have been the lying about the Team Magma thing. Probably that. Forget that you willingly volunteered to take a part in one of the most diabolical plans in the entire region that almost got your friends killed–"

"Don't forget the friend betraying," Wally added in cheerfully.

"Right. But lying about it? Hell no." Brendan snorted and flicked his eyes over to the suburbs of the city, staring at the houses with identical red roof shingles with paint jobs roughly in the same brown color scheme. "I mean ... yeah, he voiced his 'disappointment,' whatever that means, but other than that, he hasn't really done much to me. Talked to me for that matter. He just seems ... distant, I guess. All he does is ask me to do things, and because I know things are awkward, I do them. This apprenticeship is just one of those things. I know he has really wanted me to do it ever since I got my trainer's license. And I wanted to do it, too."

Wally plucked a strand of green hair from his head (it was an odd nervous habit the boy picked up, Brendan realized. Probably from the days when he was dating May) and released it, watching as the wind picked it up and swept it away. "Wanted? Do you still want to do the apprenticeship? I hear it's a tough program to get into. You pretty much have to be the chosen one to get into those things."

"If you don't have connections." Brendan winked, tapping his pokénav lightly against his forehead. "Not like that would help me; relatives aren't allowed to give recommendations. That's why they recommend you travel for a couple of years so you can build your network. I'm sure there's someone out there who has a good opinion about me." He looked suspiciously at Wally, an eyebrow raised. "Why? You interested? I'm sure Norman, or even my dad, could give you a good recommendation."

"I don't know. Maybe. I've been trying to figure out what I wanted to do with pokémon. I mean, I know it's early to start thinking about that stuff, but ... I guess ... I don't know ..." Wally trailed off thoughtfully, staring at the clouds. He dragged his foot back and forth, letting grains of sand roll under it. "Uh, anyway, what's your dissertation? You need one of those, right?"

"No idea." He grinned. "Like most of my life, I'll just bullshit something fancy."

"It's worked for you so far," Wally snorted, rubbing his hands up and down his arms, trying to rid them of goosebumps.

"I know, right?" Brendan hopped off the fence and looked down toward Wally's heavily packed bag, lightly kicking it with his dirty, black sneaker. "When does the bus leave?"

"Time?"

Brendan looked at his pokénav before pocketing it. "Five minutes 'til two."

"Then in about an hour and a half or so. Hear from Chris yet?"

"No texts in a while. Must mean he's flying here. The bus departs from Littleroot?"

"Yep," Wally said. "Why I'm here now instead of home, who knows? Guess I needed the walk. Mom has been rather clingy lately. Love her to bits, but ..." He bent over and picked up his backpack, swinging it over his shoulders and putting his arms through the straps. Wally looked past Brendan and admired the field behind him. Something glinted in the corner of his eye, so he turned his head to find the source. It was sunlight reflecting from one of the wide window of Professor Birch's laboratory, a dome-shaped building that rested nearby. "I guess that doesn't matter now. So you're really not going?"

"I can't. I'd like to, but I can't. Or I shouldn't. It's not like you guys will miss me, and May will get over it once she's able to jump into a bikini and lounge and – dammit, I'm going to miss seeing May in a bikini? Eff me." His hands went up to his bandanna and pulled the black cloth over his eyes, messing up his hair. "Why was I such a stupid kid on my journey, Wally? Why?"

"What do you mean 'was?'" his friend joked back, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his khaki shorts.

Brendan pulled his bandana up and swung his head toward the green-haired boy, staring dully at him as Wally innocently smiled back. He pulled off his bandanna and stared at it as it lightly flapped in the wind. The Hoenn symbol, the top half of a pokéball broken up in thick, basic curves, looked back at him with a dark green gaze. He noticed that the flapping was getting stronger and more erratic and, with his eyebrows furrowed, he looked up. Chris landed next to him – rather, he hung next to him, his right hand gripping the lowered claw of his charizard that was flapping his wings above the boys.

"Latios," Chris muttered, staring at his pokénav clutched in his other hand. He threw it toward Brendan who fumbled with the device before getting a grasp on it. "You lot need to lay off the text messages. In my days, we used letters. Emails even." Chris released himself from the orange beast and looked up, smiling at his charizard's toothy grin. "Thanks for the ride, Charcoal. Think you can drop my bag?"

Charcoal nodded and twisted his body slightly. Chris's black backpack slowly slid off from between the fire-type's wings and down onto the unaware Wally's head. He let out a loud, "Oof!" before grabbing the bag and throwing it at a laughing Chris. "Thanks for that," muttered Wally dryly as Chris returned his charizard in a beam of red light.

"Thanks for the ride, Charcoal. Promise we won't do any long flights for a while." Chris smiled at the ball gripped in his hand before clipping it next to the other five pokéballs on his belt. He looked toward Wally. "I thought you enjoyed random objects falling on your head. My mistake."

"Hilarious."

Chris swung his backpack over his shoulder. "Ah, Littleroot, you runt of a town. I missed ye." He raised his arms in the air and spun around a few times, taking in a deep breath and exhaling loudly. He stopped, facing Brendan, his arms still in the air. "And Brendan! My comrade! My brother! My sweet little champion-in-the-making! I haven't seen you in so long!" Chris skipped over in slow, wide leaps and grabbed the bewildered white-haired boy, pulling him into an awkward hug. "Did you miss me?" he whispered, blowing air into Brendan's ear.

Brendan squirmed out of Chris's hug and stood next to Wally, eye twitching. "I think you filled my weirdness quota of the day with that," he murmured, thrusting Chris's pokénav into his chest. He retied the bandanna around his head, hiding his mussy hair.

Chris laughed, pocketing the device. "I'll take that as a yes, then." His eyes shifted toward Wally. "Wally, my comrade! My brother!" He took a step toward Wally who immediately took two steps back. "My sweet little champion-in-the-making who made it even closer!" He nudged Brendan in the arm with his elbow as Brendan glared at him. "Come here and give me a hug!"

"No, I'm good!" he proclaimed, hands reaching up toward his hair and grasping the strands tightly.

"Oh, you two are so ... boring. Why aren't you both excited for this little trip May planned out? And you!" Chris looked Brendan up and down before walking over to the fence and sitting on the top post, an eyebrow raised. "Why do you look like such crap?"

Brendan stared down at his clothes. His jeans were caked with mud at the knees (he had played with the baby mudkip outside earlier) and his shirt had remnants of the toasted sandwich he had for lunch. If he raised his arms, he could distinctly see old sweat stains that rested at the corners of the sleeves. "Been busy," was his simple reply as he sat next to Chris, Wally leaning next to him once more, fiddling with the bottom buttons of his white button-up shirt. "Trying to get on my dad's good side again."

"Ah, right. Your dad read that letter you were too chicken to tell him in person." Chris rolled his eyes, tucking the end of his leather belt into a belt loop of his denim shorts. "If you weren't such a chump and talked to him in person, maybe he wouldn't be so upset about it. Did you ever really talk about it?"

"Not really," replied Brendan with shifty eyes. "I told him that it was no fault of my own that I joined–"

"Technically," Chris interrupted, "it was. You joined out of free will; it was only weeks later you realized what you got into, and that required, like, me and May to slap the eff out of you, and you were like, 'Oh noes! What have I done? Whineeeee.' All for the sake of 'world saving' or whatever you thought Maxie was doing. Or was it the cool uniforms?"

"A little of both. I told him that I regretted joining and I couldn't just 'leave.' I'm not sure if he believes me but ... Well, I'm not in jail, am I?"

"Yes, that is quite an accomplishment." Chris nodded. "Millions of people on the planet manage the same thing every day."

"Either way"–he rolled his eyes at Chris who reciprocated the gesture–"it's not worth the time to tell you what's been going on around here, but I will tell you I can't go on May's trip. I gotta work on my apprenticeship application."

"Oh, right, to kiss up to your dad. Nice."

"I try." Brendan raised his head when he heard the distant sound of pebbles being crunched underneath wheels. Down the streets where homes resided, he noticed the girl wheeling a heavy case of floral-printed luggage behind her. She had tied her brown hair in a low ponytail so it wouldn't stick to the sides of her sweaty face.

Chris noticed the girl as well. "Who's the hot chick coming up this way?" he asked, his eyes squinting as he grinned.

"May, moron," muttered Brendan.

"Oh. She's a hottie."

"Shut up."

"Fine, she's ugly."

"She is not."

"You can't have it both ways."

"She is ugly to everyone else but me."

"Good luck telling her that."

The three boys watched as May made her way toward them, half-carrying, half-dragging her rolling luggage with one hand, her other hand positioned above her brow to protect her eyes from the glaring sun. She had kicked up dirt from the trail with her sneakers, letting the dust twirl around her bare legs and dilute the air space near her in a transparent brown tint. As she approached, she yelled, "For the love of latias! Are none of you going to help me?"

"She needs helping wheeling luggage? That has wheels?" murmured Chris, smirking, red eyes flashing with amusement as May stomped the ground, grumbled something incoherent, and continued her trudge toward them, her backpack straps slipping past her shoulders and uncomfortably resting in the grooves of her elbows. He leaned forward and clasped his hands together, pressing them against his stomach.

"She needs help with everything," muttered Brendan, scratching the side of his nose with a dirty fingernail.

"I heard that, you jerk!" screeched May, eyes furious.

Wally pushed himself up from the fence and walked ahead toward May, helping her remove her awkwardly placed backpack from her arms.

"Thank you, Wally. You always were such a sweetheart," said May with a smile. Brendan held his hands out and Wally dropped the bag into his friend's arms.

May lowered the handle of her luggage back into its holder. She sat on top of it, arms crossed, balled hands tucked under her armpits. "I can't believe you're not going, B Boy," she whined, scratching the back of her left ankle with her sandalled right foot. She pulled her bandanna from her back pocket and used it to wipe at the back of her neck. "I've been planning this cruise for weeks now. You told me you were going!"

"I seriously don't remember," he lied.

"Liar."

Brendan hugged May's bag against his chest and gave the girl a weary look, eyes squinting and mouth tugged down into a frown. "You'll have fun without me. Trust me."

"Well, _duh_! Not the point!" She snatched her bag from the boy's hold and slipped the straps over her shoulder, pushing up the short sleeves of her red polo. She shoved her bandanna into an open side pocket. "The point is that you totally have been blowing me off whenever I asked if you were excited about the trip, or if you were getting ready for the trip, or whatever. You lied!" She angrily zipped up the open pocket.

Brendan rolled his eyes in Wally's direction and smirked as Wally smiled back, amused.

"Well, what do you want me to say?" he asked as he looked back at May.

"Um ... I'm sorry?"

"Fine. I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For not going on your trip?"

"No!" she huffed. She wrinkled her nose. "Not that!"

Brendan scratched the side of his head. "I'm sorry I didn't plan ahead?"

"No!"

"I'm sorry I have other things to do?"

"I'm sorry you suck ass at apologizing," Chris muttered under his breath.

"No! Were you not listening to me ... _again_?" Her eyes narrowed.

Brendan made sweeping motions with his right hand, his palm skyward and fingers slightly curled. "To be fair," he began, his head tilting to the right, "you say a lot of things." He tilted his head to the left. "I mean, some things are going to slip by, don't you think?"

"Ooh, bad, Brendan." Chris shook his head as Wally gave him a sympathetic sigh. "Very bad."

May hopped off her luggage, putting her hands on her hips. She shook her head, her ponytail sweeping against her back, while pointing at Brendan who stepped back, startled. "You," she began, "you ... I have nothing to say to you."

"Technically that _was_ something," he muttered.

She let out a screech like she was a bird of prey and pulled up the handle of her luggage, kicking the bottom of it so it leaned at an angle. She started to walk down the dirt path, pebbles grinding underneath the wheels of her suitcase. Her arms were stiff; there was a stomp in her step. The three boys watched as she walked further away. She was heading for the bus station, Littleroot's pathetic runt of a business district stretched out before her, the windows of its buildings gleaming, the buildings towering above the asphalt streets in their concrete structures.

"You're such a shitty boyfriend," Chris said, head still turned.

"A shitty kind-of-sort-of-not-really boyfriend," he corrected.

"Whatever."

The sound of wheels grinding stopped. "Are you two coming or not?" May had both hands cupped around her mouth, her posture bent slightly forward. Even from here, Brendan could see the anger flash dangerously in her usually calm eyes. "HURRY UP!"

Chris hopped off the fence. "Well," he started, hands flying up and lacing themselves together on top of his spiky, black hair, "thanks for unleashing the beast on us and all, but we better head out. She'll probably eat us if we don't hurry ... which, in retrospect, might not be bad." He winked at Brendan and let out a laugh as Brendan swiped at him. He turned toward Wally with a grimace. "Hope you have your bag of hair ready."

Wally wrapped his finger around the strap of his backpack with his right hand while patting the front left pocket of his shorts with the other. "Always," he said with a grin.

"And you two think _I'm_ the freak." Chris snapped his fingers in Brendan's direction and pointed. "See ya in a week, sweet child o' mine. Let's mooooove it out, Wally." He turned on the balls of his feet and started to walk in May's direction, Wally following after him.

Wally walked backward, waving his right hand in the air. "Bye, Brendan! Have fun!"

Brendan raised his hand and dropped it, letting his palm smack against his thigh through his dirty jeans and wiping away the balls of dirt and crumbs that managed to stick. His friends jogged a bit to catch up with the girl, who was impatiently tapping her foot. As soon as they caught up with her, she spun around, ponytail swirling from the right to the left of her head. The three were off. He watched them, red eyes wide, hooking his thumbs on the outside corners of his pockets, leaning his weight on his left leg. The sun was hot on his head, bleeding into his bandanna. He reached up and rubbed his left shoulder, dispersing the heat his shirt absorbed.

Extending his right leg, Brendan jumped, shifted his weight to his right foot, and swiveled, moving in the opposite direction of his friends and walking parallel to the crooked wooden fence bordering the laboratory's green, unkempt pastures.

**Originally Posted: 29.07.11  
>Last Revised: 09.08.11<br>**


	2. Letters in the Mail

**A/N:** This site seems to have spacing problems when it comes to italics (it connects the italicized word with the following word after). Hopefully I caught them all, but feel free to point them out if I missed any (in this chapter, the last chapter, or future chapters). Thanks and enjoy!

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><p><strong>Letters in the Mail<strong>

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><p>Brendan was overwhelmed with the sudden realization that he was alone.<p>

He felt it as he looked toward the sky, contemplating the chance of rain (the skies were blue and the sun was shining, but the gray clouds said otherwise). He heard silence between the tweets of birds, the rush of cars down the city, and it made him panicky in some ways, tension running through his veins and gathering in the fingers pressed against his neck. He wiggled them and let them grip his neck, his nails digging into his skin. He was alone, alone, alone; he had been alone for a while, really, but he had no one to call up, no one to hang out with – he only had, like, three friends, and all three of them were now out of town on some stupid cruise. But that didn't matter, right? Brendan was independent, a freethinker, someone who could easily amuse himself with balls of lint.

Silence. Overbearing silence. Empty, hollow silence, echoing itself vainly whenever it calls down narrow halls with tile flooring. Silence that likes to take up the space in between the noises of everyday life, a constant reminder that we aren't alone but, at the same time, very alone. A paradox, silence. Lots of big words, silence. Lots of unnecessary tangents to fill up time and space, silence. Language. More words. Paragraphs. Silence.

He scuffed his foot, the sound creating a noise akin to a needle scratching a record (Wally was right: using record players as a simile is pretty outdated. MP3s skip sometimes, don't they? Or was his computer just shitty?), trying to kill the loud silence, but it only multiplied like rabbits in spring once the dust settled. He was alone, but this time it was magnified, intensified. (This time he was positive he was alone. Positive.) His stomach felt like it was filled with a lunch of cold air, and his throat was tight, and it took some concentration not to vomit up his loneliness.

How annoyingly poetic. He rolled his eyes. He had no idea why he felt this way all of a sudden. Maybe because this time there were no distractions, no way for him to put off this apprenticeship application. He had to get his shit done, and that made him sad in a way, something twisting painfully inside and – God, why was he upset over this? Over getting his shit together? Over growing up? That's what you're supposed to do when you get older. You grow up because if you don't grow up, you're either stagnant, forced to be a stupid fourteen, almost fifteen, year-old for the rest of your life, like the goddamn Peter Pan, or you grow down, some sort of Benjamin Button shit. This was right. This is what he had to get on his dad's good side again. But ... well, shit, come on! Who doesn't love procrastination and watching television in sweats from noon to five while eating cereal from the box?

Brendan heard footsteps, louder, faster, and a wild flail of arms wrapped around his shoulders and pulled him into an awkward backwards hug. He recognized her scent, sweet but not overbearingly so. He recognized her touch, skin lightly kissed by the sun.

"You really can't come?" a girl's voice whined, muffled.

Brendan turned around in the girl's grip and wrapped his own arms around her lower back. Like before, he gently swayed them back and forth like they were dancing – dancing to silence, the loud, annoying, screechy silence that tends to repeat itself at awkward moments to once again fill space. "May, you know I have a lot of stuff to fix here."

As annoyed as the girl got with his stupid antics – and latios only knows how stupid his antics were – she was good at understanding. In some ways, he felt like her supposed anger was all an act, a subtle attempt in pushing his buttons because that was her thing, pushing his buttons until he flipped a bitch, and she, in turn, flipped a bitch, and it was one, fun endless cycle of flipping and bitching. And silence. Poetic silence. And something with being alone.

Still, she couldn't hide the way her eyes reflected disappointment, trying to blink it away but failing. She nodded anyway. "I know, and I hope it's worth it," she teased, playfully wrinkling her nose. "Do your pops proud, B Boy."

Brendan rested his hands lightly against the sides of his face and gently kissed her forehead. "I'll try."

May stood on tippy-toe and pecked his lips, her cheeks flushed, and sweet groudon, she looks gorgeous, he mused, unable to hide his goofy grin. This only made her giggle. "I'll get you a cool keychain," she said.

"One that says, 'My friends went on a cruise, and all I got was this stupid keychain?'"

She stepped back, one hand wrapped around his right wrist. "Yeah. Or something that lights up. I know how lights distract you."

"Goody." He grinned. "Have fun."

"Will do." She released his wrists from her grip and mock saluted him. "I'll see ya in a week, B Boy. Don't miss me too much." She winked.

"I'll try."

She blew him a kiss and skipped down the dirt road to catch up with the two boys waiting for her at the end of the block. (He could imagine Wally's eyes rolling and Chris snickering at the public display of affection.) He turned back around and started his ascent toward the laboratory's entrance.

In some ways, he was relieved he didn't go. Sure, a vacation would have been nice, breaking up the tedious work of watching television hours at a time, and he hadn't seen Chris or Wally in weeks. But he really needed the time to stop, breathe, and think, take life seriously for once. He had been away from home for more than a year, scraping his knees, sleeping in latios-knows-what, and going days without showering, sometimes to spite May – look. She deserved it. She took the last piece of food on a two-day hike, and the punishment for not sharing is a smelly boy with greasy hair because sharing is caring and not sharing is overbearing … in smell. Where was he going with this?

Right. Good to be home, yada, yada. Life had been so wrapped around his external goals – finding a certain type of pokémon for his dad, getting all his gym badges, qualifying for the league, placing in the league, failing in the league, stop being annoyed by May, start liking May as a friend, start liking May as more than a friend, etcetera – that he really didn't know who he was anymore. Along the way, the cocky trainer who came off rude to strangers became the cocky trainer who came off rude to strangers but had three friends to smack him in the head and tell him to apologize.

"Journeys" are supposed to help you figure out who you are, but he felt more lost than ever. Most trainers start off as blank slates; he didn't. You're the son of Professor Birch, and you're expected to be something. He was supposed to be the shit, the top banana, because his dad was the shit, the top banana, in his own right. Of course he was that "bright-eyed" kid, but he had expectations to fulfill, a parent to please. It was a constant thought nuzzled in his mind. When he thought about it, it was for this very reason that he bizarrely believed and joined Team Magma. _Look at me! I'm doing something useful!_ Stupid. But it felt good to feel important for once, to not be looked down upon as some stupid kid who's just learning but as a person who knew what he was doing. (He really didn't know what he was doing, but he felt pleasure in knowing that Maxie had so much trust in him for a while and expected him to get his goals done, no questions asked. Of course that, too, fell flat on its head.)

He found his way to the entrance of the pasture where the wooden fence had split up into a fifteen foot gap. He looked at the laboratory's metal mailbox that sat on top of one of the fence's wooden pillars. The flag was down and the door was cracked open at the top – mail was here. Brendan pulled down the opening and inserted his hand, grabbing a hefty bulk of papers. He shuffled through them halfheartedly, looking for anything remotely interesting. Bill, ad, bill, ad, letter, ad, ad ...

In the midst of his mail reading, Muddy had slowly crept up on his hind legs, orange eyes bright and mischievous. He noticed a puddle made from last night's storm, water brown and gently rippling with the slightest movement from the wind. He pounded his fists together, declared, "RAIN DROPS KEEP FALLING ON MY"–he jumped into the puddle, the water splashing in all directions and hitting Brendan and his pile of letters–"HEAD!"

Brendan looked at his pokémon dismayed, wiping his soaked fingers on a dry spot on his jeans. He flapped the letters in the air, beads of water flying off of them. "I don't think you realize how much I hate you, Bemired Muddy Swampert," he muttered.

Muddy looked coyly at the ground, drawing circles in the ground with his left foot. Since his blue skin was rubbery, the water dripped off his skin. "My beloved Brendan Robert Birch," he mocked back. "I never knew you felt so strongly for me. I must reject your advances, though. I can totally do better than you."

Brendan wiped the letters against the back of his jeans, smearing the brown water against one of the white envelopes. He turned the envelope around, noticing that it was addressed for him. "You're lucky," he said while walking toward the dome-shaped laboratory, Muddy waddling next to him, his heavy, gray tail shaking back and forth. "This letter is for me."

"You have friends?" Muddy asked, blinking rapidly a few times. "Friends who are literate?"

Brendan glared at Muddy who only smiled goofily in return.

"You know, I can read," Muddy added proudly, pulling at one of his orange whiskers.

"Mhm," said Brendan airily as he pinned the rest of the letters underneath his armpit. He gripped the envelope addressed to him, sliding a finger underneath a corner and pulling up on it.

"I'm great at reading." Muddy nodded. "I know so many things because I can read. Reading is P-H-U-N."

"While spelling is not." Brendan ripped open the top of the envelope. "Amuse me. Tell me something you learned through reading."

They were closing in on the laboratory; the dirt path was now replaced with a brick one. The two could feel the cold air of the air conditioner seep through the cracks of the laboratory's glass doors. Brendan stopped as he pulled the letter out, causing Muddy to stop, too. "Did you know that Voldemort was Tom Riddle?" the swampert asked.

"What is a Voldemort?" Brendan replied, eyes busy.

"I don't know. Some sort of snake man? But yeah. That's what I learned! Also!" Muddy peered forward, looking at Brendan's letter and trying to piece together the weird, squiggly symbols into something coherent. "I can read this! It says you qualified for Hoenn's Battle Frontier!"

Brendan flipped the letter back and forth, confused. "Whoa. You're right." He looked up suspiciously. "You can't read. How did you know that?"

Muddy grinned. "Okay, so maybe the messenger taillow told me. Sue me." He pushed his paws in front of him as Brendan stared dully at him.

Brendan straightened out the paper, gripping it tightly at the edges and creating creases. "'Dear Mr. Brendan Birch,'" he read out loud, eyes rolling left to right. He shook his right leg. "'Congratulations. In recognition of your talents in the various fields of pokémon'"–he brushed off Muddy's snort–"'you are invited to take part in Hoenn's Battle Frontier' ..." he trailed off and looked around the paper, staring his pokémon in the face. "The Battle Frontier ... What's a Battle Frontier?"

"A frontier of battles," Muddy said firmly.

"Besides that."

"Words."

"Besides _that_."

"Words strategically stringed together in a specific arrangement to illustrate an object."

"Oh, shut up," Brendan grumbled as Muddy smiled cheekily at him. He racked his brain, nose crinkling. "Right." He snapped his fingers. "That one thing that Scott dude was talking about a couple of months ago." His mind flooded with memories of chasing the shady, chubby, sun glass-wearing man who rode on the back of a milotic, trying to get away from him and Muddy. He was stopped when Muddy threw a rock he pulled out of latios-knows-where at Scott's head, knocking him off his milotic's back.

Sure enough, Muddy had pulled out a rock from latios-knows-where, letting it rest on the flat of his open palm. "Ron remembers," he said, petting it with his other paw. "Ron remembers all."

Brendan eyed his starter pokémon warily before going back to the letter. "'If you are interested in participating in the Battle Frontier and would like more information, we have set up exhibits in the following cities: Slateport, Fallarbor, Verdanturf, and Lilycove. Each exhibit will provide information about the various battle facilities the Battle Frontier holds while demonstrating a specific battle style each facility may use. The Battle Frontier is located on an island off the coast of Hoenn's main island. The first ship will depart on July second from Slateport's port or Lilycove's docks.' July second, huh?"

"Hey," Muddy commented, balancing Ron on his head, "that's almost your birthday."

"That _is _my birthday."

"Poe-tay-toh, poh-tah-toh."

Brendan finished reading. "'We hope to see you there. Sincerely, Scott and the Frontier Brain Trust.' Interesting."

"Scott and the Frontier Brain Trust sounds like a final boss," remarked Muddy.

"Yeah, a huge brain that can teleport with eyes that extend out and tendrils at the bottom that can entrap you."

"They also call that Andross, and he's copyrighted." Muddy winked toward the open space as Brendan rolled his eyes.

Brendan folded the paper back into thirds and started to walk into the clean, white laboratory, Muddy walking beside him. The automatic glass doors slid open, and the cold air blowing from the vents enveloped them. "So what do you think?" he asked, scuffing his shoes against the tile floor. "Think I should go? The opening is in two weeks."

Muddy wasn't looking at Brendan, his eyes focused on the oak bookshelves filled with heavy books pushed up against the laboratory's east wall. He turned his attention up and watched the ceiling fans spin. Brendan poked him in the arm, and he swatted at it in return. "I heard you," he said, bright eyes snapping back toward his trainer, "and I don't know."

"Don't you miss battling?"

Muddy looked down at his feet, staring at his blurry reflection in the tile. "I don't know," he repeated. "I'm busy with the chilluns. Aren't you busy with your application?"

Brendan puckered his lips, lightly biting the inside of his cheek. "Well," he began, "all I have to do is write my dissertation, request and pick up some recommendations"–he held up two fingers and wiggled them in the air–"and reorganize my 'dex information and input it into the home database." He dropped his hand and grinned. "Shouldn't take me that long – and hey! Maybe I'll have time to visit one of the exhibitions. Slateport is only a few hours away by train. Maybe I can request someone to write me a recommendation in that area. I'll use that as an excuse. Two birds, one stone."

Muddy could see the excitement in Brendan's face. "I don't know," he said for the third time, pulling his tail to the side and rubbing his paws against the red and black bandana tied around it. "Assuming you can finish all that in two weeks, what if you get accepted for an apprenticeship? You think you can work that _and_ battle at this frontier of battles? I mean, you only had one sole task during our journey, which was getting badges and qualifying for the league, and look where that got you."

"Balls deep in a situation that may or may not have destroyed Hoenn's ecosystem, which may or may not have eventually ruined the world," Brendan answered airily, swatting his hand back and forth like a composer. "What is this, being logical all of a sudden?"

"Moments, man, moments." Muddy grinned as Brendan slid the letter back into the envelope. "Besides that, aren't you sent to a specific area to study under a specific researcher? What if you're in an area that is far away from wherever this frontier of battle takes place?"

"That's the point of the dissertation; it works as a personal statement so the panel, if they so choose to pick you, can recommend a reasonable place for you to do your study under a researcher who is commended in the field you are interested in. But in the end, the apprentice has the last say in where he or she wants to study – and really, Muddy. This is freaky. Stop thinking so practically."

"Just sayin'. I thought the whole reason why you didn't go on May's cruise thing was because you wanted to stay here and get on your dad's good side again."

"That's a vacation. This–"

"Has nothing to do with your apprenticeship," the swampert interrupted. Brendan pulled the letters away from his armpit and tugged anxiously at the bottom of his shirt. "Look, I know I'm not the best voice of reason–"

"Seriously, it's freaking me out. Please stop."

"–but you keep whining to me about gaining your dad's trust again. 'Muddy'"–the swampert turned the corners of his mouth and raised the pitch of his voice–"'my daddy hates me. Muddy, nobody yikes me. Muddy, my diaper is full and I don't know what to do.'" He grinned back when Brendan glared at him. "Isn't that all fabricated anyway? Your dad's 'rage,' not the diaper. You never really talked to him about it since you're too chicken."

"I just ... know, Muddy. How would you feel if your kids–"

"Kips," Muddy corrected happily.

"–fine, _kips_ joined an eco-group on a whim without doing any research about them in the first place? It's so ... so anti-researcher. Oh, by the way, this eco-group is Team Magma. Oh, by the way, your son almost got himself and his friends killed by joining them. Oh, by the way, your son almost winded up in jail. Oh, by the way, the reason why your son flubbed up so badly in the league was because he couldn't take the rumors circulating about him being an ex-Magma member."

"Oh, little Tycoon wouldn't do that." Muddy chuckled to himself. "Tycoon is a rascal and he's been getting in trouble, but he wouldn't do that. Maybe almost get his friends killed, but that's, like, a rite of passage in swampert culture. Sally might, though ..." He cocked his head to the side in thought. "Also, they're pokémon."

Brendan blinked rapidly a few times as he slid the letter into his pocket. "Regardless," he said, "I just can't bring myself to talk about it with him. I already know he's disappointed in me. But that's beside the point. What were we talking about?"

"Me saying that you shouldn't go to the frontier of battles because you said to me earlier that you should stay here because you think your dad is disappointed in you." Muddy inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly.

"It could be beneficial. I'll talk to him about it." At this, Brendan lightly hit the top of his pokémon's head with the stack of letters. "You go back to doing whatever you were doing earlier."

Muddy frowned. "I can't," he lamented. "Flare took my wand, and now I'm one of you stupid muggles."

"Once again, I have no idea what you're talking about, but that kind of makes me glad." Brendan shrugged his pokémon off and began to head toward the door bordered by stacks of cardboard boxes at the back of the laboratory. He stopped when he was in front of it, reading the gold-plated plaque nailed to the door. "Robert Birch, Ph.D" was what he read before he wrapped his hand around the metal doorknob and pushed down on it. The door opened with a loud groan.

Good old Robert Birch, commonly known as Professor Birch to everyone else and Dad to him, was sitting on the edge of his desk, legs crossed at the ankle and right leg on top, revealing the bottom of the professor's sandal (Brendan could see black bubblegum stuck to it). A manila folder was propped open in his left hand, and he was flipping through the thin sheets of paper before stopping on one, eyebrows furrowed. He looked up idly and gave Brendan a small grin.

"Hey, kid," he greeted. "Since you're there, think you can pull out the file on the castform's molecular structure? It's in the cabinet to your right, second drawer from the top."

Brendan nodded while kicking the door closed with the back of his foot. He walked over to the steel filing cabinet, pinned the stack of letters under his armpit again, and pulled the second drawer open. He flipped through the thick folders before finding the one his dad requested, pulling it out. With three giant steps, Brendan crossed the small office and dropped the heavy manila folder with a thud, throwing the rest of the letters next to it. The action awoke a small, gray, squishy thing sleeping next to Professor Birch's thigh. Blue eyes looked at the boy tiredly before widening themselves. He squeaked happily and flew upward, nuzzling the top of his head against the bottom of Brendan's chin.

"Hey, Thermo," the boy greeted just as enthusiastically, gently petting the castform. "Didn't know you were here. Sorry I awoke you."

Thermo squeaked three times in return, giving his trainer's chin a final nudge with his head before flying over to Professor Birch's shoulder and resting on top of it. He peered into the file the professor was looking at, curious.

"Reading about castform, huh?" Brendan laced his hands behind his back and shifted his weight between the balls and heels of his feet.

"Fascinating creatures, castform," Professor Birch replied. "Hope you don't mind Thermo hanging out with me so much." He reached up and rubbed the top of the castform's head with two fingers, and Thermo squeaked back, relaxing against the man's neck.

"'Course not."

Professor Birch put down the folder he had at hand and picked up the one Brendan had placed next to him. "Well, thanks for getting the file." He looked down at his side again. "Oh, and for getting the mail, too."

"'Course." Brendan added a nod this time.

His dad smiled to himself and opened the folder, eyes scanning the first page quickly before moving onto the second one. Brendan didn't leave – move, really, besides his rocking – and looked at the clock that hung from the wall above more filing cabinets, watching the seconds tick by. Fifteen minutes past two. May, Wally, and Chris were probably waiting at the bus station now. His eyes wandered down the white walls, across the tile, and up his dad's mahogany desk. He observed how cluttered the desk was, how papers were disorganized and haphazardly thrown about the table (the more you research, the less picky you are about how neat the external details are). There were empty mugs of coffee, pencils, some broken, and fancy pens. Picture frames: pictures of the Birch family, and one of his dad, Professor Elm, and Professor Oak (Rowan was the one taking this particular picture) with their arms around each other, the flimsy sheets protected by thin glass. Behind the desk was a black leather chair and two bookshelves also containing heavy, hardbound books, some written by his dad himself.

When Professor Birch realized his son hadn't left, he began to ask questions. "Did you feed the babies?"

"Yeah."

"Water the oran trees?"

"Yeah."

"Mow the grass?"

"Later." At this, Brendan wiped nervously at the back of his neck.

"Work on your apprenticeship application?"

"About thaaaaat ..."

This caught Professor Birch's attention. He looked up, eyebrow raised. "You _have_ been working on your dissertation, right?"

Brendan brought his hands to the front and wrung them. "I'm still settling down on the thesis–"

"Come on, Brendan–"

"–but once I do work out the kinks, I should be okay. You know how starting is always the hardest part of the journey." Brendan paused. "And speaking of journey ..."

Professor Birch sighed and placed the folder back down on the table. He scooped Thermo into his left hand and held him, letting the creature ooze between his fingers. Despite the sigh, his eyes flashed amusement; Brendan took this as a good sign. "What about 'journey'?"

Brendan reached into his pocket and shakily pulled out the folded envelope. He waved it in the air. "I got invited to participate in the Battle Frontier."

"You don't say." His father smiled. He readjusted the folds of his white lab coat with his free hand, careful to not disturb the castform that was slowly being lulled to sleep by the hum of the air conditioner. "I didn't know Scott and Noland were opening that place up so soon. They've been working on it for years now."

Brendan didn't bother asking who Noland was or how his father knew who Scott was (though he probably should have figured – his dad pretty much knew everyone important in the Hoenn region). "It opens in two weeks," he said, trying to straighten out his shaky voice. "I think I'm gonna go."

Professor Birch looked at Brendan through tired, brown eyes. "I don't know, Brendan. You still haven't finished your application, and you know that's due at the end of–"

"I know it's due at the end of the month," Brendan interrupted, annoyed, nostrils flaring. "And I swear I'll get it done before then. I still need to go out of town and collect letters of recommendation."

His dad pulled out his cell phone from the pocket of his shorts and flipped it open, checking to see if he missed calls. "From who?"

Brendan racked his brain quickly without trying to look panic-stricken. "Captain Stern," he said slowly, whimsically, eyes rolling up and to the right, "in Slateport."

Brendan knew nothing about Captain Stern other than he watched him freak the freak out when he realized his submarine was being stolen by Team Aqua, but it was the first name that popped up in his head when he thought of people in Slateport. In retrospect, he should have said Mr. Briney (or was it Captain Briney now? He recently came out of retirement to become lead developer of the S.S. Tidal that started running a month ago) because he knew Briney better than Stern.

Sure enough, his dad called him out on it. "When did you meet Stern?"

"Did I say Stern?" Brendan's voice was growing higher in pitch. He pulled at his shirt collar and cleared his throat. "I meant Briney. Mister – er, Captain Briney. He shipped May and I to Dewford and Slateport a couple of times. We helped rescue his wingull from Team"–he visibly flinched and tried to change the course of conversation back to his original point–"I mean we helped rescue his wingull, Peeko."

He could tell his dad loved how awkward Brendan was right now as he grinned again and put his phone back in his pocket. He picked up the castform file from the table and put down the sleeping castform in his hand. Wiping his wet hand across his dark-blue undershirt, he asked, "Who else?"

This one clicked automatically, remembering another city the Battle Frontier was hosting exhibitions. "Professor Cozmo in Fallarbor."

"Crazy Carl the meteorite man," his father mused. "You met him?"

Brendan nodded eagerly. "I helped get his meteorite back when Team"–effin' hell, another Team Magma or Aqua connection?–"when he lost it. Yeah."

"Impressive." Brendan felt his insides surge with pride at his father's comment. "Anyone else?"

"Norman."

"Might as well milk your girlfriend's dad for all he's worth." Professor Birch winked before opening the file again.

"Kind-of-sort-of-not-really-girlfriend's dad," he corrected.

"Uh ... huh." Professor Birch licked his fingers and turned a page. "Sounds like a solid list. You better ask them today before it gets too late."

"I'll call them this afternoon." He had to slide this next point in very carefully. "And since I'm going to be in Fallarbor and Slateport, I think I'll go ahead and visit the Battle Frontier's open exhibitions just to see what they're about." Brendan quickly turned around toward the door and opened it. "Okay, thanks for everything, Dad! See you in a week!"

Nice one, Brendan. He celebrated in his head.

"Not so fast, _son_." Professor Birch emphasized the last part, stepping forward, reaching out, and grabbing Brendan by the back of his shirt. The boy tried to wiggle out of his dad's grasp, outstretching his arms toward the open door, but it was no use; his father's grip was firm. So he slouched, his face in a scowl, his arms crossed. "You've only been home for two and a half weeks, Brendan. Give your pokémon a chance to relax. Give _yourself_a chance to relax. Don't just rush back into the battling world."

"But Daaaaad," whined Brendan, pulling his shirt out of Professor's Birch's grasp and turning to face him. "I've been so bored! And if I'm going to–"

"If you were so bored then why didn't you go on that cruise with May and your other friends? Or finish your dissertation – and you better write that soon as well," argued Professor Birch, crossing his arms. Sighing, he walked over to his desk and leaned against it again, picking up the folder again. "The Battle Frontier isn't going anywhere, Brendan, and neither are its exhibitions. I don't want you dashing off to some unknown area with no idea what's up there."

Brendan frowned. "But isn't that the point of being a trainer? To explore unknown areas? To adventure? And really, Dad, it'll give me a chance to see new pokémon. The Battle Frontier isn't limited to Hoenn trainers; there are trainers all over the world going there. It'll be great for research! Imagine it." Stars were in his eyes as he raised a fist in the air. "A venusaur from Kanto! A sentret from Johto! A yanma from Sinnoh!"

"Yanma are more native to Johto actually."

"Bah! Whatever!"

Professor Birch sighed. "You have prior commitments. I don't want you to get distracted."

"I won't, I promise. My main goal will be to pick up those letters, and on the train I'll work on my dissertation. It's perfect because I won't be distracted there, and the train takes hours! Since I'm going to be so far away, can't I hang around town for a day or two just to sight see? It's been a while since I have last been in Fallarbor, and besides the exhibit, Slateport Market is having its bi-annual taffy sale now. I know you want taffy."

Professor Birch looked up dreamily. "I do enjoy taffy ..." He shook his head. "Fine. You can go and stop by the exhibitions, but I'll be checking up on you and your progress on your application. You only have two weeks left."

"I won't let you down. I'll get it done. I'll call Norman, Cozmo and Stern–"

"Briney," his father corrected, cupping chin with an open palm and rubbing his left temple with his fingers.

"–Briney right now. I'll start hammering out my dissertation after."

"No, you first call Briney, Cozmo, and Norman and _politely_"–his father made sure to put stress on this word–"ask if they will write you a letter of recommendation. After that, you mow the lawn, help Muddy feed the babies dinner, THEN work on your dissertation."

"Dammit." Still, Brendan couldn't hide his grin. He slipped the letter back into his pocket and patted it twice as he left his dad's office and back into the open space. The sun was shining through the windows, and he raised his arms in the air and spun around like he was in a corny movie. This was his chance at a new start, a chance to not only make his dad proud but himself proud, too. For once, he thought as he exited the lab and stood outside, admiring the way the long grass waved back and forth like the tide, he felt like he was on the right path, and he was determined not to fail this time. It was going to be a lot of work, sure, but Brendan could handle it ... right?

Right.

**Originally Posted: 09.08.11**  
><strong> Last Revised: 09.08.11 for grammatical errors<strong>


	3. An Offer

Sorry for the late update. Writing battles again threw me for a loop, though hopefully I'm over that bump and will be update on a more regular basis. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>An Offer<strong>

* * *

><p>"He is such an idiot."<p>

"She's talking again." Chris picked up his paper cup of lemonade from the floor and bent the plastic straw at an angle. "Your turn to deal, Wally," he said before placing his lips around the straw, starting to drink the refreshment. With his free hand, he pushed up the bridge of his sunglasses. He rolled his shoulders back and sank into the plastic beach chair, curling his right leg back and letting his toes hang in between the gaps. He rested the bottom of the cup on his bare chest, letting the condensation leave a water ring on his skin.

Wally stared out toward the glittering sea, exhaling sharply at another blast of salty wind. He dropped his hand and let his fingers graze against the wooden docks which was hot under his tips. Bringing his hand back up, he scratched his scalp through his hair, noting how warm the strands were. "Relax, May," he remarked. "Let it be. He's not here, and nothing is going to change that. Why not just enjoy yourself?"

May pulled off her sunglasses and lightly chewed the tip of the earpiece. She flared her nostrils but grinned all the same. "Trashing Brendan is my enjoyment, though," she said jokingly, lifting her eyebrows twice. She pressed her head into the back of the beach chair and stared up toward the sky, eyes squinting from the sunlight. The skies were blue and clear. The ship was cruising through Hoenn's clear seas at a lazy, comforting pace, slow enough where the equally lazy wingull were able to drop down and rest on the ship's metal railing after circling and squawking aimlessly.

"Normally, I'd agree," Chris replied, fingers still wrapped around his cup and shaking off the drops of water, "but give it a rest. Let's just, you know, not talk about Brendan and his questionable habits and fashion taste." He pulled up the frame of his sunglasses up to watch a couple of bikini-clad girls walk by. He smirked at them – idle flirtation. They didn't directly respond to him as May predicted, though one of them smiled to herself, eyes averted to the ground.

Wally turned onto his right side to look at May, his head propped up with his hand. "Yeah, I've always meant to ask you about that. What's with the shorts over pants over socks thing?"

"Is _that_ what it is?" Chris asked as he pulled his shades over his eyes. "I thought it was just shorts with a weird leg attachment."

"Heck if I know," May answered as she hooked her sunglasses to her bag. She stared out to the sea where the grooves between ripples caught the sun's reflection. "I bought him that traveling outfit in Fortree, and it only came with the shorts. I'm not sure where he found those pants. Or socks. I don't even know what they are." She shook her head, brown hair brushing against her bare shoulders. "Whatever. I thought it was an interesting look. Made him stand out."

"He doesn't need clothes for that; he's awkward enough by himself," Chris muttered.

"Oh, hush. I thought you guys wanted me to stop talking about him, but here we are talking about him."

"I was just curious," the green-haired trainer replied. Wally flipped back onto his back and brought his hands to his face, smelling the sunscreen he lathered on his pale skin earlier. "I always thought it was weird. He's always hiding his legs."

"I bet he has lizard legs," Chris replied.

May snorted before choking out a laugh. She pressed her fingers on her lips and tugged down lightly on her bottom lip.

"I bet he shaves them," he added. "Shaved lizard legs. Such sexy shit."

"Be quiet, Chris. You're so mean." May smiled as Wally laced his fingers behind his neck and closed his eyes. "He's normal down there. I've seen him in boxers before."

"Down there with only boxers on, huh? Oh, baby, tell me more," Chris teased before biting down on his straw.

May punched Chris in the arm playfully, eliciting a grin from him back. "Pervert." She sat up, eyes cast ahead. She twirled a strand of hair around her pointer finger. "You guys want something to eat? Think I'ma get a snack."

Chris rattled his cup and nodded. "Yeah, need a refill. I'll go with you." He lifted his sunglasses and let them rest on top of his spiky hair.

The girl slipped her feet into her flip-flops and stood up, stretching her arms over her head. "What about you, Wally?" she asked, directing her attention toward the green-haired boy who remained reclined in his chair. She watched as he wiped excess sunscreen off his nose and smear it against his swim trunks.

"Just get me a bottle of water or something," he said as Chris sat up and pulled on a dark blue t-shirt. "I'll watch your stuff."

"You're a doll."

Wally smiled in return. Chris fished out his wallet from his backpack that hung from the back of his chair while she sifted and jiggled the coins in the pocket of her shorts. Her fingers pressed against something cold and plastic – her trainer's I.D, one of the three things she rarely left the house without, one being her pokenav, the other being, of course, her pokémon. There was a side of the ship that was open for the pokémon to relax and lounge themselves, but the captain – and event coordinators – cautioned to carry at least one pokémon around at all times for the sake of protection and, in the case of the event coordinators, for battle contests held every few hours that may trigger a trainer's urge.

The two of them set off for the little snack stop that was snug between the pool and the battling deck. Both of their sandals thwacked against the back of their heels with each leg movement forward, an added instrument to the cacophony of circling wingull and waves that slammed into the steel fixture of the ship. May adjusted the strap of her red bikini top so it stayed snug around her shoulder before dropping her hand and letting it brush against her shorts. Chris nonchalantly looked out toward the sea, thumbs hooked on his pokéball belt clipped around his trunks. She counted – one, two. She remembered him saying that he left most of his pokémon at home, and before they boarded, Chris transferred his charizard – his ride to Littleroot – back to Sootopolis, stating that the charizard would find much more enjoyment flying around the peaks of Sootopolis's white mountains. She idly wondered what pokémon he had with him, her hand wrapped around the pokéball that hung from a thin silver chain around her neck.

When she looked away from her pokéball, her eyes met the ones of Chris's who stared back at her curiously. Chris's eyes were red too, like Brendan's, but while Brendan's were sharp, alarming in ways like the noctowl at night who recently spotted prey, Chris's were calm, a darker shade bordering more on brown. He rested his hands on top of his head. "How are things with B Boy anyway?" he asked, rubbing his lips together.

"You mean besides him totally ditching on me?"

"He didn't necessarily 'ditch.'" Chris lifted his hands up and used his fingers to illustrate invisible quotation marks. "He just bit off far more than he can chew."

"Par usual."

"Par usual," he repeated with a grin. "Stop bugging out over it. Just have fun. We have, like, six more days. Let's just make this trip about you and me"–he noticed her stare at him, confused–"and Wally. Let me finish my sentence, babe." He winked at her.

She rolled her eyes. "I suppose. He is a dumbass, though."

"Mm." Chris pulled off the sunglasses off his head and pocketed them, allowing the wind freedom to roam through his short strands of dark hair. He tugged at his right earlobe.

She always considered Chris Brendan's opposite. Of course they were similar in ways: cocky, for example, and filled with smart-ass replies. But while Brendan was usually a hot mess in an awkward shorts-pants-socks outfit, Chris was a lot calmer, a clearer vision for what was up ahead. May was the first one to meet Chris but was the most distant to him. She knew Brendan and Chris would be close; there was automatic brotherhood when the two met, but with him and her it was ... strange. She always liked Chris – he _did_ save her once after all – and she figured it was time to try and make their friendship an actual friendship instead of one based on a chain of relationships, the tense connection between Brendan's "girlfriend" and Brendan's "brother."

"Right. Enough of him," she said with a small smile.

The two of them could hear the joyful yells and splashing of kids swimming in the pool. May grimaced as water sloshed into the rubber sole of her flip flop; she curled her toes so her shoes wouldn't fly off. They walked toward the small, wooden side store that was next to the pool. Chris focused his attention toward the white board that had the prices of various snacks; May gazed past the pool and toward the battling deck where a few people were sweeping the field clean. By the amount of people gathering around the field, she figured another battle event was going to take place.

A cold bump in the arm got her attention, and she turned her head. Chris handed her a can of pop and a bag of pretzels, and just as she was about to reach into her pocket for her money, he shook his head. "On me," he said as he swiped Wally's water bottle off the counter with one hand while holding onto his refill of lemonade with the other. He nodded his head in the direction of the battlefield. "What's going on there?"

She opened her bag of pretzels. "Probably another battle contest," she answered before throwing a pretzel into her mouth, her tongue watering at the salty texture. "Have you competed in one yet?"

"Nope."

She chewed thoughtfully. "Surprising."

"Is it?"

"You like battling and free things and showing off."

"Very true." He grinned and rattled his drink. "Let's check it out."

May squeezed the bag of pretzels in her hand as the two of them walked around the pool and up the wet wooden ramp toward the battle deck and the growing crowd. They squeezed themselves between a few giggling seven-year-olds clad in soaked swimwear, the distinct scent of sunscreen lotion wafting from them, and a couple a few years older than May and Chris. The boy had his arms wrapped around the girl, and the girl had her hands pressed lovingly against the boy's laced hands, the back of her head pressed against his shoulder. She briefly longed for Brendan and his awkward embrace where he wouldn't know where to place his hands and would move them every three seconds, but she quickly shook the disgustingly sappy thought out of her mind. Chris's arm pressed against hers; his skin was hot from the sun. She looked down and saw him playing with the leftover strap on his belt idly.

"We should battle," he said, chewing on the tip of his straw, "if it's a double battle. From the looks of the screen"–he nudged his head toward the black, electronic screen propped up by metal poles–"it's going to be a two-versus-two battle with each trainer using one pokémon."

May held her can of pop with the crook of her elbow, ignoring the biting sensation that came from cold metal against hot skin, and threw another pretzel in her mouth. Her eyes scanned the field: it was a boring gray, conrete surface with a white line drawn in the middle and two drawn boxes at each end. The sea and sun made for a nice backdrop though. "I dunno. I'm rusty."

"When's the last time you battled?"

Twenty-two days, she automatically thought in her head. It had been twenty-two days since she had lost her battle to Wally in the pokémon league and twenty-two days since she had been too ashamed to fight, even against a wild pokémon. A battle of emotions that fight was; it was her emotions that got the better of her. Still, it wasn't like Wally was in a peaceful state of mind during that battle (it was a rough breakup as short-lived as their relationship was), but he had the ability to keep his emotions under wraps. She couldn't do that. She couldn't keep her emotions in check, and worse of all, she couldn't command a single strategy. Granted, Wally was one tough cookie now (which she loved, considering his early days as a trainer), but she was _slaughtered_ in that fight. She couldn't blame emotion. Maybe she just sucked as a trainer, and that is the worst thought of all. Who was she?

She leaned her weight on her left leg, hand reaching up to play with her necklace. "Not since the league," May finally answered slowly, thoughtfully.

"For real?"

"For real."

He snorted. "Guess you're right. You'd make us lose."

She wrinkled her nose and punched Chris lightly in the upper arm. "Jerk."

He raised his eyebrows twice and brushed his right thumb against his nose. "You didn't disagree."

"Doesn't make you any less of a jerk."

"The correct answer is: 'I'll prove you wrong and battle!'" He raised his hand as the event coordinator, clipboard in hand, started to walk back and forth in front of the crowd as she scrutinized them for potential battlers. "You're suppose to rage and fight, like a good motivational movie."

"I'm more into romantic comedies where the awkward boy gets the girl in the end."

"That movie has already played and is okay at best."

"Lots of reviews though."

"With most of them sappy that the movie ended rather than the actual ending."

"Digressions," she said. She sighed before raising her hand. "All right, all right. Let's try to get picked."

"Flash your tits."

She punched him in the arm for the third time that day. "I hope you get a bruise."

"Then I can show it off to Brendan and tell him about all the fun we had." He smirked as she raised her fist threateningly again. "You're sick, May. Sick."

She waved her arm wildly in the air. "You better be glad we're friends."

He wiggled his eyebrows and focused his attention back on the event coordinator. She picked out two trainers – a young boy around ten in swimming trunks and a girl around May's age with a high ponytail and a bikini top on. The coordinator started to walk back in their direction, ignoring the hoots and hollers from trainers trying to catch her attention. May waved her hand hard in the air while Chris coolly held his pointer finger up, thumb lightly pressed against the rest of his slightly bent fingers ("We're not trying to catch a taxi," she muttered). The crazy waving of the girl with an equally crazy smile paired with the nonchalant stance of the amused boy seemed to pique the coordinator's attention, and with a tight, forced grin, she pointed them to the trainer's box to her left. May skipped to the spot amidst the defeated sighs while Chris walked behind her, hands pressed on top of his head again.

It really has been a while, she noted, feeling the same, exhilarating but nervous feeling in her stomach whenever she stepped into the usually chalk-drawn trainer's box. She gazed down the bare, concrete field until her eyes reached the opposite side. The "field" wasn't long or all that interesting – it definitely wasn't the size of the regulation fields in gyms nor had the quirks and crannies of obstacles – but looking at the opposite end gave her a horizontal sense of vertigo. Or maybe it was the idea of battling again. She wasn't entirely sure.

The gusty, cold breeze pricked up the hairs on her arms, or maybe that was her nerves doing that, as she reached up and tugged at the pokéball around her neck, unclipping it from the chain. Chris pulled out his from his belt with one clean, sweeping motion, enlarging the ball with the press of the button and bringing it up to his chin, letting his lips graze against the metal. The sun was hot on their heads; May thought of the sunglasses she left back on the beach chair with an irritated huff of breath.

The event coordinator strolled over toward the middle of the field and planted a foot on each side of the drawn white line. "I would like to thank our four trainers for volunteering their time and energy for putting on another exciting battle for our lovely crowd." The event coordinator's personality seemed to do a 180, May noted, no longer bitter but artificially sweet.

As the crowds cheered, the event coordinator took the time to brush the bangs out of her eyes before delicately holding the microphone part of her headset between her pointer finger and thumb. "Like all of our battle exhibits," she began, placing her free hand against her hip, "the winner, or winners in this case, will receive a free dinner courtesy of the Berriology Juice Company, makers of the ever popular "Pink n' Pecha Pineapple" and "Lively Leppa" mixtures!"

"Hell yes, food," Chris cheered as May rolled her eyes.

"This is a double battle as you may have noticed by our lovely scoreboard overhead provided by the Devon Corporation." She gestured toward the black board behind her. "The rules are the following: each trainer is allowed one pokémon each; the partner of each duo is not allowed to substitute for his partner in the event that his partner has no applicable pokémon to battle with. The time limit is ten minutes. In the event that both pokémon of each side are still able to fight, the side that has done the most damage as recognized by our judge will be declared the winner. Are we clear?"

Chris and May nodded, and May watched as their opponents did the same.

"Fantastic." The event coordinator smiled as she walked off the field and stood next to the judge. "I am Julie, your amazing event coordinator for this lovely June noon, and I hope you folks have a lovely time watching this battle!" She looked at the judge next to her who was clad in a wife beater, swimming trunks, and flip-flops. "Wave your flags down when you're ready."

With a red flag in his left hand – Chris and May's side – and a green flag in his other, the judge raised his arms for a few seconds before sweeping them back down, flags fluttering down with them. "Begin!"

May reeled her arm back before thrusting it forward, releasing the ball from her grip. "Show your stuff, Flare!" Before the ball could hit the ground, the creature released herself from its hold, landing gracefully on her long, lean legs. She clenched her claws a few times, blue eyes fiercely staring down her opposition.

"It's been a while." May could just picture the smirk on the blaziken's face. She preened down the red feathers on her arms. "I'm not disappointed though."

"I might be rusty," she warned her pokémon.

"I'm not."

The girl on the opposing side, after contemplating May's choice, pulled out a pokéball from her belt and released it. "Mismagius, let's go!" The pokémon came out in a flash of light, yellow eyes menacing and smile eerie. May had never seen a mismagius up close before, though she had to admit that it was a pretty pokémon, its purple color rich in the sunlight.

The girl's partner was the next to release his pokémon, one that May was more familiar with: an azumarill. The blue ball of cuteness brought his tail to the front and grabbed the end of it between his paws.

May turned her head toward Chris who still hadn't released the pokéball pressed against his lips. "Oi," she said, tapping him on the arm. "You done makin' out with your pokéball yet?"

He gave her the side-eye but removed the ball away from his lips. "Girl, please. Just thinkin' of tactics."

"This is a fun battle with a prize of a free dinner. You really need to think of some extravagant tactic?"

Chris turned his head, frowning. "All battles are serious business."

"... We're on a fun cruise battling for a dinner."

"GIRL, FREE DINNER IS SERIOUS BUSINESS."

She groaned, putting her hands on her hips and leaning her weight on her left leg. "Good god. Just release your pokémon already and STOP CALLING ME GIRL!"

Chris dropped his hand from his face and threw his pokéball toward the concrete field. The ball glinted in the light as it spiraled, colors blurring together before it split open, revealing the tall but lanky form of Chris' typhlosion. He roared, letting flames erupt from his back, brightly contrasting against the pale blue of the sky. "Hey, buuuuddy," the trainer said with a wide grin. "Know you've been itchin' for a fight."

The typholosion turned his head, letting the flames on his back die down, and returned his trainer's statement with his own toothy smirk.

There wasn't a coin flip to determine who would be allowed to strike first, only adding onto the many reasons that May decided not to take this battle seriously (besides, you know, the whole crashing-and-burning at the league thing that forced her to not step foot on a battlefield since then but whatever to that), though the seven year-old decided to take initiative and command, "Hydro Pump at the blaziken!"

The azumarill raised the end of his tail in the air, inhaled, and puffed out his chest before opening his mouth and releasing a stream of water that jetted toward Flare. She took the attack directly but it wasn't powerful enough to knock her down; instead, she skidded back a few feet on the concrete ground, sounding an irritating scratching noise, and groaned, eyes narrowed. She managed to lift up her claws to block the attack from assailing her chest.

"Thunderpunch!" May commanded, nose scrunched.

Flare, with one eye opened, clenched her claws together into fists, and sparks of electricity crackled down her arms. The electricity traveled down the stream of water, shocking the azumarill from stopping his attack. Feathers wet and flattened from the attack, Flare stretched out her long legs and ran toward the opposite side of the field, drops of water flying off her body and streaming behind her. She swung low and smacked the water-type in the stomach, knocking him off his feet and making him roll into a ball. He uncurled himself, looking dazed but still standing, one hand pressed against the side of his head

"Darn." May snapped her fingers. "I thought that would knock that thing out for sure."

"Nice underestimation," Chris murmured back, smirking, the sea wind ruffling his hair.

"It's not like this is a league battle."

"Ah, dear May, every battle should be treated like it's a league battle."

She snapped his head toward him and looked at him dully. "Thank you, oh wise one," she replied dryly.

"Mismagius," their girl opponent commanded, pulling her ponytail to the side and brushing her fingers through it, "Psybeam on the blaziken!"

"They're really going after you today," Chris muttered. He stepped forward, sneaker gritting against the concrete, and shouted, "Quick Attack, Bunsen!"

The mismagius floated left to right and cooed her name, eyes glowing and flickering through purple and blue shades, a mischievous grin on her face. Before she could launch the attack, the typhlosion, who had dropped to all fours, pounced on her with a vicious snarl and pinned her under his forelegs. The mismagius squirmed and tried to wiggle out in frustration as she puffed out her cheeks.

"Get 'em off with Iron Tail, Azu!" the boy opponent ordered, hand reaching up to grab the scuba mask on top of his head.

Azumarill jumped into the air and curled himself back into a ball, his tail stretching out and transforming into a hardened steel that glinted in the sunlight. The ball collided with Bunsen's back with a sickening crunch, causing Bunsen to roar and weakening his grip on Mismagius. She floated above him, stuck her saliva-drenched tongue out and licked his face, causing the beast to roar louder. He stumbled back onto his hind legs and dizzily walked back to his side of the field, paw pressed against where his opponent had licked.

"Paralyzed?" May asked worriedly.

"Nah, I think just dazed out." Chris snapped his fingers, cheeks scrunching up in amusement. "Hey buuuuuudy. You okay?"

Bunsen spun around on one foot, his tongue lopping out his mouth.

"Yeah, he's fine."

May eyed her friend warily. "If you say so." She stuck her thumbs through the belt loops of her shorts and popped her weight to her right leg. "Flamethrower!"

The blaziken ran a few steps forward and opened her beak, releasing a stream of flames that licked the concrete floor and created refraction, making the surrounding air wavy. The attack collided into both pokémon; Mismagius screeched her name and floated backward and Azumarill rolled back into a ball, his tail sticking out.

"Tell her to keep the attack going," Chris said, pocketing his left hand and rolling balls of lint between his fingers.

May nodded. "Fantastic, Flare! Keep it up!"

Flare ground her right foot in the floor and lowered the intensity of her flames so the attack wasn't as powerful but was more consistent. Mismagius managed to shake free, huffing, gray smoke rising from the top of her head. Azumarill was still curled up in a ball and was rolling left and right. Bunsen had dropped back onto all fours and was shaking his head, tongue lopping out between his teeth.

"Body fat," May heard Chris mutter. "He can take fire attacks ... most of them anyway." He winked at her. She didn't know whether to feel insulted or not but brushed the comment off nonetheless. "Bunsen is coming back to his senses I think."

"So why am I having Flare keep up Flamethrower?" May crossed her arms.

"You'll see."

"Rollout!" the boy opponent commanded with a grin.

"Pair it up with Power Gem!" his partner added.

"Shit," Chris muttered. "Strengthen it."

May widened her eyes and nodded, tugging at the chain around her neck. "One final, strong blast, Flare! Put all your power into it!" The wind blasted against the back of her throat, making her cough. She held down the top of her bandanna with her other hand, glaring against the powerful breeze.

The sudden strong bout of wind seemed to throw Flare slightly off balance, but she managed to stop her attack for a brief second, inhale deeply, and blow another jet of flames that engulfed the rolling azumarill whose was heading toward them quickly. The gems around Mismagius's neck glowed a bright red before balls of energy floated out and solidified into brown stones. Mismagius gave them a cute, little smirk as the same red energy took over her eyes, and with a nod of her head, the stones sped toward Flare and Bunsen.

"Now, Bunsen!" May noticed Chris's voice shot up to a higher pitch and cracked, which amused her. "Into the flames and use Flare Blitz!"

That's a new one, she thought as the typhlosion snarled and jumped into the fire and darted toward his opponents on all fours at a breakneck speed. The flames on his back jumped high, increased by Flare's attack (or is it the other way around? May thought). Mismagius's attack came first, but he took it head on, the stones crumbling to dust against his hard head. Azumarill and his Rollout was next; Bunsen, with another growl, knocked his opponent off course. He shot past and collided into the bewildered mismagius in a fiery blaze, which looked more like an accident than on purpose in May's eyes. He darted past her too, yelping his name repeatedly.

"So ... how does he stop? He's going kind of fast there." May scratched her head.

Chris wiped the side of his nose with his thumb. "Yeaaaah, still working on that."

Sure enough, Bunsen withdrew the flames into his back and tried to pull himself back up his hind legs mid-run. He stumbled for a few steps before belly flopping and hitting the concrete hard, twitching but still conscious. Flare stopped her attack, raising a claw and pressing it against her chest, breathing heavily.

"How ... awkward," May heard her pokémon mutter. She nodded shortly in agreement and stared at the opposing pokémon. Both were flat on the floor; Azumarill was no longer curled up but flat on his back, scorch marks all over his body and Mismagius was unmoving, too, except for the wisps at the end of her cloak moved by the wind. She looked back toward Bunsen, one eye narrowed. He was twitching still, not in shock but as a note that he was still alert; she vaguely wondered if Chris told him to do that after the aftermath of the attack. It would be easy to think that the pokémon knocked himself out after that clumsy landing.

The judge seemed to take note of this too. "Azumarill and Mismagius are unable to battle!" He pointed the red flag at Chris and May. "Red team wins!"

Bunsen groggily got back up, shaking the pebbles out of his fur before standing back up onto his hind legs and walking back toward his trainer, a tired but happy grin on his face. Chris curled his right hand into a fist, and the typhlosion did the same, bumping it against his trainer's. He mumbled his name a few times, and Chris nodded with a laugh.

"Definitely better. We need to work on it in a room filled with mattresses for sure, though that would probably just set the room on fire ..."

Flare trod over, her arm dropping back to her side and her breathing contained back to a normal rhythm. "That felt good," she said, crossing her arms.

"I know you missed it," her trainer replied.

"I do," she said, still a little breathless, "but I'm just glad to see you come out of your safety bubble. You were in there far too long."

"Forced, really."

"Your new beginnings seem to go that way, yes." The blaziken winked.

"Why am I surrounded by creatures with cryptic winking? Thanks, you brat."

Flare let out a small, amused laugh as May pulled out her pokéball and returned her in a beam of red light. Chris did the same with Bunsen, clipping the ball back to his belt.

"Good job," he said, clapping May on the back and making her choke on her saliva. She let out a few coughs before turning her head toward him and glaring.

"Softer with girls. You know, just don't even do that to girls."

"I thought we were buuuuuddaaaays, and I do that to my buuuuuddaaaays."

"I'm a different breed of 'buuuuuddaaaay' for your information." She twisted her right flip-flop against the concrete as she stared at the ground; she hadn't noticed her shoe was dry from pool water.

"Whatever." Chris clapped his hands together and rubbed them, smacking his dry lips. "So where's this dinner?"

**. . .**

May stared up at the crystal chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. The shards were sparkling in the white light; solidified rain, she thought, frozen in time. She didn't know what to do with her hands. They rested on the white cloth of the table before sliding down to her lap only to place them back on the table, fingers pressing hard enough to feel the wooden structure underneath. They had just finished the main course – she had chicken with some sort of white sauce she couldn't name while Chris and Wally had steak – and were waiting on dessert. She smiled politely when the waiter pulled her plate off the table and balanced it in the crook of his elbow, trying to ease herself out of her awkwardness. No, May Maple is never awkward. That's Brendan's job. Ugh, enough about Brendan – that jerk! – already.

They were sitting at a round table, Wally on her left side and Chris to her right. She hadn't known this dining room was here – the one they ate in last night wasn't as lavishly decorated nor as formal but the food was twice as good. Still, the formality of it all seemed to restrict her enjoyment; she enjoyed dressing up, but impressing people that seemed to be of importance made her nervous.

May dragged her black high heels back, feeling the red carpet fibers tangled around the heels snap, and tucked her feet beneath her chair, pushing back the cloth covering. She pushed up the thick strap of her dress, a green ensemble, and shook her head to brush her curled hair out of her face. She gazed at the soft, gold wallpaper past the heads of the diners, most of them older couples. This ship is pretty much two different ventures, she thought, one for families and people her age and one for couples trying to keep the romance alive. It was odd being here seeing as she belonged in the former party – in fact, she was pretty sure they were the only one sitting at a group table. Everyone else was at small, square tables, most of them against the large, clean windows for ambiance purposes. It looked boring to sit there honestly; from here, all she could see was the black sea and the black sky, though maybe it was because she couldn't clearly gaze at the horizon lit by spots of gold.

Wally cleared his throat and pulled at the black collar of his shirt. "Um, thanks for ... dinner," he said tentatively, the first to say anything after their main course plates were taken away. "Especially for allowing me to come. I know the award was just for the winners of the battle contest–"

"Nonsense, _Wally,_" the lady across from them interrupted. May gave Wally the side-eye; the lady in a tight, navy blue strapless dress had been putting an odd, high-stressed intonation on the green-haired boy's name ever since he introduced himself as Wally Wood. "We are happy, perhaps honored, to have you join us."

May turned her head to face Wally fully and could tell the boy was itching to ask her why it was such a honor, but he was too shy. These things tend to answer themselves anyway, something she learned from experience.

Chris didn't seem to care for formalities. He was dressed up, sure, a solid red, silk tie adorning his black button-up and his slacks ironed, but that was just Chris's nature: polished and a bit more fashion-conscious than his white-haired buddy (or is it buuuuuddaaaay?). But unlike May and Wally who were sitting stark-stiff in their covered, wooden chairs, Chris was leaning back. He patted his stomach and, much to May's relief, burped to himself, covering his mouth with a tight fist. "I'm stuffed," he proclaimed. "I don't think I could eat – ooh, cake." He immediately sat back up as the waiter put a plate of chocolate cake and chocolate-covered strawberries in front of him. He picked up his spare fork and dug in. She had to fight back the urge to roll her eyes and nodded politely again as the waiter gave her her own dessert.

"I managed to catch the end of your battle. Very strong, your pokémon," said the lady's companion who had introduced himself as Mr. B. The lady smiled at him, flipping her long, dark hair behind her shoulder. He reciprocated the gesture by grinning back, his teeth white, almost fake-looking. "Flare Blitz is an uncommon move around here."

Chris looked up from his cake and wiggled his eyebrows twice. "I know, right?" he said after swallowing his mouthful of dessert. "It's a very powerful move – most fire-type moves are – but anyway, I have been reading about it for ages and finally decided to try it. My typhlosion seemed like the perfect candidate. Fast little bugger, my Bunsen, and he has the ability to control the temperature of his flames. Once he masters the technique, I'm gonna see if he can integrated that into the attack, and if he can–"

May cleared her throat to stop him, and he grinned cheekily. It was endearing, actually, until May remembered who she was staring at. "Thanks," she halfheartedly addressed the couple ahead, "for the compliments and hospitality." She looked at the set of candles that were alight at the center of the table. It was hard to focus on the couple for so long; they looked too ... unreal. Too perfect, and sharp, and luxurious.

Wally picked up his fork and poked at a strawberry, letting it roll around. May wasn't too hungry for dessert either and instead opted to let her eyes sweep the room until the couple demanded their attention again. There were two empty seats next to Chris and one empty seat next to Wally, and she vaguely wondered who else was suppose to be here. The cruise did hold a couple of battle events per day, though there was an option of taking a free dinner in "The Lounge," the fancy dining area that May hadn't known existed until a hour ago, or on a voucher that worked at certain shops on the ship. She liked dressing up and Chris really wanted steak, but she could see why the other winners opted for the "less classier" route and got their winnings on paper.

Her eyes wandered to the seat to the right of Chris, the red bow tie still knotted perfectly and the white sheet covering the wooden chair undisturbed. She saw him, a white button-up adorned with a striped green tie – of course they had to match – and his hair less mussy. He would be trading snarky little jabs with his annoying best friend under mutter breaths, and they would laugh at inconvenient and inappropriate times that would catch everyone's attention, and when someone would ask what was so funny, both of them would zip their mouth shuts and go back to eating. The night would end with her raging at the both of them outside, the night air whipping around them, for being disgusting human beings – Wally would be hanging in the background, leaning against the railing, and would be staring up at the black sky, pretending not to know any of them – and they would just snicker and make fun of her dress or her shoes or how, in preparation for tonight, she burnt her neck curling her hair ("It looks like a hickey," Chris teased earlier). Those two got a rise out of each other that continued to build and build until someone got hurt – usually a slap to the face by May to Brendan.

"Ah, so you own the Berriology company. Guess it makes sense that the dinner would be provided by them," Wally said, lightly scraping his fork against the white, ceramic plate.

"Hmm?" May snapped out of her fantasy and pulled her eyes away from the empty seat, not before catching the weird gaze that Chris was giving her. The man had pulled out a black portfolio and had placed it on the empty spot to his right. He opened it a crack and had pulled out papers, and suddenly – the promotions, the dinner, the reason why they were the only one that accepted the dinner – was abundantly clear.

"No free dinner is free," Chris said with a grimace. "Thanks, May."

"You're the one that wanted steak," she hissed.

"You're the one that wanted to feel 'girly.'"

"Now, don't feel pressured," said Mr. B as he used the table to click his pen open, "but we would like to discuss sponsorship with our company. I'm sure you all are aware what sponsorship is, correct?"

Chris raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms. "Walking billboards," he said. "You battle under a company name, battle what they tell you to battle." He put his fork down and bit the tip of his tongue between his teeth. "Now I see. That's why you taken so much interested in Wally." He looked at Wally, who had looked to the side, probably pretending he couldn't hear or see anyone at the table. May assumed Wally had caught onto this as soon as sponsorships were brought up too. "Since he ranked so high in last season's Hoenn League, you know he would bring attention to your company if he signed a contract with you."

The lady simply smiled and lifted her glass of red wine as if to toast the answer, lightly swirling it.

"Our sponsorship programs are much more than give-and-take; if anything, it benefits more the trainer than the business," Mr B. replied coolly, lowering his eyelids to look at them with a half-lidded gaze (Scrutinizing us, May thought). He slid the papers across the table; May looked at them and noticed they were applications written in a fine, black print. "Unlike other programs, our trainers are allowed to travel around the region – to other regions, in fact – and pretty much function as ... how would you call it, Maria?"

"Freelance," the lady next to him said before pressing her heavily lipsticked lips on the glass and taking a sip of her wine.

"Yes, 'freelance' trainers. Of course, there are some stipulations ..."

Wally picked up a stapled application and flipped to the third page, reading the smaller print at the bottom. "This is a two year contract."

"You're not thinking of the benefits," Mr. B replied quickly as if used to this conversation, drumming his fingers on the table as Maria placed her glass on the table and folded her hands into her lap. "I know sponsorships are associated with 'contracts' as you said, commitments that they are forced into–"

"That's what sponsorships are, aren't they? Sure, you tell us _now_ that we're allowed to roam around, but soon enough those reins will be pulled tighter and tighter and tighter." May was surprised that it was Wally arguing; she was sure Chris would be the one to fight against corporations being he was stuck in one for the last year, but here he was, sitting silently and reading the application pinned between his pointer finger and thumb. She looked at Wally; his pupils were dilated, filled with nervousness, but his voice was anything but shaky. She had to admire how grown he become from a year ago. He wasn't that shy, little sickly boy but someone who wasn't afraid to stand up for himself.

Mr. B tightened his lips but seemed to show sympathy in his hazel eyes. "They provide opportunities that a trainer not be able to reach on his own. They can help you reach your goals. Besides this, it's a way of giving the trainer a steady monetary income, which, as I'm sure you know, is very hard to do on the road. Some trainers aren't as lucky as you are when it comes to battle and need the help economically–" A tap on the shoulder interrupted him, and he turned his shaved head to look at the waiter. The waiter bent down a bit to whisper into his ear, and Mr. B nodded in response. He pushed his chair out and nodded at the trainers ahead. "Excuse us for a minute. Maria and I need to discuss something with some partners in the corridor. Please feel free to think about it. Read over the papers. No pressure, of course." He helped Maria out of her chair, and she placed her delicate hand in his open palm, letting him escort her out of the dining room, her hips swinging.

The three watched them descend down the corridor in silence until Wally, in a mumbled, angry tone, said, "It's skill, not luck. The freakin' nerve."

"You know what he meant," Chris answered. May squirmed uncomfortably in her seat, running her fingers down a seam of her dress. "He meant lucky with income, not with battling."

"Such crap. You know as well as I do what those programs do. They lull you into a false sense of security, making you believe they're helping you further your career and making you think you're in control, and bam – they use you. They make you advertise things you may not agree with, they whip you away from what you really want to do and there's nothing you can do about it. Your name becomes a brand; you're not a person but another dollar sign. I'm not buying into it, and if you were smart, you'd put that down"–he motioned toward the papers–"and walk away from this." Wally pulled the cloth napkin off his lap and placed it next to his dessert plate. "I thank them for dinner, but come on. I still have a soul and all."

"Icy," said Chris nonchalantly, eyes still focused on the application.

Wally tucked the chair back into the table and placed his hands on the top, leaning his weight into it. "We're trainers because we love what we do, not because of what we can earn."

May nodded slowly but kept her mouth shut, part because she didn't know what to say and part because she didn't want to take sides.

Chris finally snapped his attention away from the papers to look at the stern Wally. He snorted at the green gaze. "Such balls you grew ever since the league. Maybe since you ever visited Sootopolis and asked May out even though you knew how Brendan felt." He grinned viciously at the red that flushed Wally's face. May felt her throat constrict at her friend's bickering.

"That wasn't necessary," she said coldly.

Chris sighed, curling his application into a tube. "Fair enough. I'm just saying that they're these programs do provide opportunities."

"Besides money, name me one," Wally challenged, scratching behind his left ankle with his right foot. "Honestly, I can't believe I'm arguing with _you_ about this. You were in a soulless corporation, weren't you? You were lured in by false promises by Maxie, no?"

"That was Brendan. You don't get it. That was different."

"Not really. Except for some cause that was supposed to 'benefit' the world that selfishly ignored the repercussions of said cause, you're thinking about joining a corporation for your own selfish needs. What kind of trainer are you?"

Chris smirked, though May could see the anger building up in his cheeks. "Look at you, my cute little Wally. Standing up for his beliefs like a big boy. I don't know whether to cry in happiness or sock you for being a complete dipshit."

May desperately wanted to back out of her chair and retreat to the safety of her room, but she knew she had to act as the referee in case things got too bad. She stared at the flickering candles, watching the wax drip into the glass plate. "Let's just ..." she trailed off and rubbed her lips together.

Chris opened his mouth, huffed, and poked the tip of his tongue against his cheek. He flicked his tongue away and ran it across his upper teeth, gazing at Wally in a mixture of amusement and anger. "For starters, you should really shut your mouth about shit you know nothing about. Whatever 'deal' me and Team Magma had is, and will be, between us or whatever parties I decide to tell that to. Was that plan stupid? Yes. Of course it was stupid. Did I agree with it? No. But, as you may know one day whether it's from me or from Brendan's big mouth, it was a position I was forced into–"

"So you're _willingly_ walking into a position that will – and I mean 'will' not 'may' – force you to do things? Makes sense," his friend replied sarcastically. Wally clucked his tongue against the roof of his tongue. He lifted his right hand to his hair and plucked out a couple of green strands, rolling it between his fingers. "No, I don't know anything about your past nor do I think I need to. You contemplating this sponsorship is stupid."

Chris laughed. "You honestly don't get it. I didn't join that stupid team because I thought it was right thing or cool thing to do but because_ I_ had to for my family. It was money. It was for security. Tell me, Wally. How much money did you get when you placed in the league?"

Wally narrowed his eyes but didn't reply.

"Enough to offset traveling costs for a month? Two months? Half a year? More? How much did our top five placer get?"

Wally exhaled slowly, flaring out his nostrils.

Chris turned his attention toward May, who sat up, alarmed. "What about you, gym leader's kid?" May had never heard his voice go so icy. "Who'd you call when you needed money? Your daddy or Birch's daddy?"

May scraped her teeth against her bottom lip. "Don't bring me into this," she muttered.

"Hm. You see, I got shit," Chris said quietly. "Most trainers don't have monetary support."

"Don't sell who you are for money," Wally murmured.

"That's where you're wrong. It's not about me." He simpered sadly; May swore she saw him tear up, but she blinked, and the shininess at the corner of his eye ducts were gone. "It never was. I'll do what I have to do because that's my job as a brother, as a son." He looked back down at the application he placed back on the table; it had unfurled but the sides were curving up. "No, you won't get it. You neither." He directed his attention toward May. "In reality, trainers struggle. They struggle to survive. You're lucky, you two. You're out here for yourself, you're battling for yourself; I'm not. You need help? You got it. I'm here for my family because they need me to be out here. Trainers would _kill_ for what these people are offering me."

"You're selling yourself short. You're selling yourself out," Wally argued. May twisted the corner of her napkin in her lap and looked down, staring at the rich emerald fabric of her dress.

"Who am I anyway?" Chris challenged.

Wally tried to tackle a second point. "I ... you know I didn't have support when I left for my journey–"

"Then I suppose I'm just not as 'skilled' as you, Wally," Chris interrupted. "When it comes down to it," he added sadly, "it's not me that's the selfish one here." Chris scooted his chair back and stood up, letting his napkin drop to the floor. He nodded at them both before swiping the application off the table. "I'll see you both tomorrow. I need to sleep this off."

With a twist of his shiny dress shoes, Chris headed toward the grand doors embellished with marble swirls. He walked down the carpeted corridor dimly lit by artificial candlelight. Wally stood up straight and May had remained sitting.

"If he needs help," Wally said, addressing the open space, "there are better ways to get it."

May placed the napkin in her lap on the table and stood up as well, feeling shaky in her high heels. "We don't know much about his situation," she remarked. "And he's right; we don't know what it's like to actually struggle with money. Brendan and I always had our parents support during our journey."

"Let's not group all of us together. I had no income coming in either and I did fine."

"Some people aren't as lucky as others."

Wally opened his mouth to argue this again but bit down on his lip to stop himself. "Mm," he replied, lifting his chin.

"I don't think it's fair to judge his decisions if we can't really empathize," she continued, pinching the soft material of her dress. "He's smart. He doesn't jump the gun and do things because it sounds good. He really thinks about his decisions."

"I don't want him to repeat the same actions that got him into a lot of trouble a couple years ago."

"Neither do, I, Wally. But I think we should let sleeping dogs lie. Let him do what he believes he needs to do."

Wally nudged his head back toward the applications resting on the table. "Think he'll do it?"

May pursed her lips, staring at the paper long enough where the words started to swirl together. "I guess we'll see."


	4. A Moment of Melancholy

**A Moment of Melancholy– Hot Chicks!**

* * *

><p><em>Pokémon "families" differ depending on species – i.e. fish pokémon are in groups called "schools;" dog pokémon run in "packs." However, when a trainer captures a pokémon, they are often forced to intermingle with breeds they may not have come into contact with. Dynamics are changed; some breeds are used to a hierarchy, some are mutual. Domesticated breeds function differently to their wild-born counterpart.<em>

_In my experience as a hybrid trainer – that is a trainer who uses different breeds of pokémon from the canine to the amphibian instead of specializing in one breed or one elemental type – I have realized pokémon dynamic, or the way a group of pokémon exist peacefully in a group, relies on an unspoken, makeshift set of rules. Leadership is usually given to the strongest pokémon in the group not trainer-owned – this may be settled by a battle of some kind, whether its by physical contact or showcasing. However, leadership in a "trainer family" is aaaaaaaaffffffgggggjjjjjlkl''''''''''''''''_

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"Sirius, get off!" Brendan complained, pulling his laptop away from his pokémon's paw and holding it above his head. Sirius's right paw slipped onto his thigh (Brendan suppressed an urge to giggle at the ticklish motion) before he took another step forward and pressed both forepaws against the window. He stuck his head out through the open gap at top and squealed, "Wiiiiiiiiind! Wiiiiiiiiiind!" The sea breeze ruffled his dark fur. Brendan could see the pokémon stick his tongue out between his fang with childish delight.

"Dogs," he muttered.

"Wiiiiiiiiiiiind!" was the mightyena's excited reply.

Brendan lowered his arms and placed his laptop on his legs before moving over so Sirius could have full access to the window. He threw his feet up, resting them on the seat across from him, and stared at the document in front of him. Three pages of work in two hours wasn't _that_ bad, was it? It was the first hour that was the hardest – he was definitely grasping at straws there – but once he got the ball rolling, he really started to push ahead.

"'Leadership,'" he read to himself, eyes furrowed, "'in a "trainer family" is usually handed down to the pokémon by its trainer; in most cases, it is the first pokémon owned in the trainer's party. The way that a trainer may specify a certain pokémon for a specific job (I.e, one pokémon may be for defense only while another may be for offense) also seems to specify what type of role the pokémon will have in its new family dynamic.' ... Where am I going with this?"

"Trees!" shouted Sirius before barking a few times. "Fucking trees! Get the hell out of here, tree– that's right. You're gone – wiiiiiiiiiind!"

Brendan tapped his fingers on the keyboard a few times before hitting the enter key a few times and starting a new paragraph. "'In the event that the leader of the "trainer family" can no longer fulfill his duties (either this power is stripped from him by the pokémon team, his trainer, or other obligations), the next leader is, from what I have experienced, chosen by the pokémon who believe their trainer has given that power to In the wild, the most powerful and dominate creature usually assumes this role. This is not always the case within a trainer's group.'"

Sirius Orion Mightyena, second-in-command (now first), popped his head back in, fur on his face mussed up, and mused, "I wish Muddy could come with us."

Brendan scrolled his eyes toward the window and watched the scenery fly back in hues of browns and greens. He listened to the rhythmic thunks of the train rolling down the track and the wind that whistled through the open window. "I do too, buddy, but he's got other obligations now. I am glad you decided to tag along with me though."

"Everyone is gone," Sirius added casually, walking on the seat to be closer to Brendan. He poked his cold nose against his trainer's sleeve and stared at the laptop screen. "Thermo is busy being observed by Professor Birch, Cinders wanted to stay behind to play with the babies, Silver is on some 'spiritual quest,' Muddy is busy being a dad – God, that's odd. Muddy is a dad. I know it's been a few weeks since the babies hatched and you told us the news but ... You know, that's exactly what this world needed: his DNA on four legs." His voice was rich with sarcasm.

Brendan smiled as he saved his work and ran his fingers down the keys, sounding a pleasant clacking noise. "You underestimate him. Everyone does. Dad thought it would be good if we passed on his genes to a new generation."

Sirius snorted. "Yeah, well. I have no idea when he had the time to do the nasty-nasty or with who when we were busy training for the league– and I don't want to know, so shut your mouth!" His eyes scrunched as Brendan let out a short laugh. "How much longer?"

The trainer put his laptop to sleep and closed the lid with a light click. He pulled his backpack up by putting his foot through the strap and lifting his leg, grabbing it by the top. Brendan looked out the window, noticing the scenery wasn't zipping by any longer but rolling to a steady stop. "I think we're here," he answered as he stashed his laptop into his backpack and zipped it up. He slid his arm back through the strap to put it back on. "Can you feel the train slowing down? You can see the ocean in the distance ..." he trailed off as Sirius wandered back toward the window, his nose poking out through the gap.

"Wiiiiiiind! Wiiiiiiind ... dying down," the hyena whimpered sadly as the train was slowing down to a halt and letting out a high pitched whistle. The wheels squeaked against the railing. "Why is wind dying – WIIIIIIIIIND!" The ocean gusts blasted him in the air, and he grinned excitedly. He sniffed a few times, letting the salty air tingle his nostrils. "WIIIIIIIIIND!"

Brendan pushed himself up by pressing his hands against the seat's armrests, letting his achy limbs get some much relieved stretches. He raised his arms above his head and cracked his knuckles as the conductor announced that they reached their destination. "God, you're weird," he remarked playfully.

Sirius jumped off the seats back onto the roughly carpeted ground and spat a few times, his tongue sticking out with disgust. "Bleh, sand! Never doing that again."

"I'm sure." Brendan looked down the aisle; people were standing up already and walking toward the exit. He was surprised the Littleroot area had so many passengers commuting between there and Slateport, but it had been a while since he had taken public transportation. He was much too used to walking everywhere ... not like that was a bad thing.

Sirius stayed on his heels, his nose sometimes poking against the back of his calve. Brendan stepped off the train, feet hitting the sandy concrete ground, and he stepped away from the train, trying not to get in the way of the people trying to board. He stared up at the sky idly, one hand wrapped around his crossbody backpack strap, and listened to his surroundings: a speaker announcing that the train would be leaving soon for its next destination, the chatter of locals, seabirds poking around the benches for food crumbs. He felt and heard the train's doors swish behind him, and a few seconds later, the train was rolling forward with a rush of wind. Turning his head, he watched the train depart, the huge, mechanical beast streamlining ahead and shrinking from his vision the longer he looked. A quiet enveloped him – the people on the train with him already departed the station apparently, and the birds were scared off by the noises – and the moment felt cinematic as he drew his eyes ahead toward the building with an arched entrance made of sandy rock. Sirius pawed at the ground and stared up at his trainer, eyes filled with wonder.

"What are we waiting for?" he asked, poking his tongue against his fangs.

"I'm not sure," the trainer replied honestly. Brendan reached up and squeezed his right shoulder with his right hand. The wind danced through his hair and created goosebumps on his arms. "Let's go." The two wandered ahead in silence through the arch, embracing the cool shadows that before emerging back into the sunlight.

It was one of those moments – well, more like it was a moment that happened days ago and hadn't left him. It was a feeling of being excited for something new because god knows you haven't really felt like you have been doing anything useful to society or to yourself, and you jump on the first chance you get because well, shit, it's new, right? And then once you commit, once you say those words, "I won't let you down. I'll get it done," it's like a whole new ballpark. Or something. Some sort of analogy that works in this sort of scenario.

He brushed past some girls wearing bikini tops and holding big bags and towels, and his trail of nonsensical thought was broken by his brain stressing, "God, don't look back at those hottie hot hots. You have a girlfriend ... sort of. You can sort of look – no, don't fucking look, I was kidding." But then it returned back to his stressed state of stress, his wonderment of wonder, his redundancy of redundant. Announcing yourself that you have something new to do is easier said than done, you know? You have to commit. You have to do shit. Fucking shit in all sense of those two words.

Slateport. It's been a while. They stopped in front of an open restaurant decorated with bright umbrellas and straw, and it was filled to the brim with tourists in bathing suits and beach attire. He felt out of place wearing jeans, sneakers and a green t-shirt; maybe he would take some time to relax on the beach and swim for a bit. Sirius would probably enjoy that. Out of everyone doing their own thing, Sirius seemed to be the only one that hadn't changed so much. (Of course, he was dating a cat or something, which still freaked him out.) He deserved a break away from ... well, everything.

The soft, white sand stretched out for miles. People were lounging in beach chairs; colorful towels were lined on the floor. The sun got caught in the grooves between small ocean waves, causing it to reflect and sparkle; the water was a deep blue. Brendan gazed into it and felt himself getting swept up into the scenery, and he opened his mouth and felt breathless for a second. He protected his eyes from the sun with the flat of his palm.

"So what are we here for?" asked the mightyena, panting. "For the bitches?" His eyes spotted a female mightyena a few yards away laying down next to her trainer on the beach, and he flicked his tongue against his nose and grinned.

Brendan rolled his eyes and twisted around on the balls of his feet, walking in the opposite direction. He rested the flat of his palms on the top of his head and extended his elbows out. "First, I need to pick up something for my dad and then I need to pick up something for me. And besides, we're both taken, I think," he said, looking down at his pokémon.

"Something!" Sirius said cheerily, eyes cast forward.

They reached the cobblestone streets of the famous Slateport outdoor market. Foods and spices mingled in with the salt in the air and flooded Brendan's nostrils, but he didn't mind the onslaught of powerful scents. They roamed down the road and looked through the stalls: seashell jewelery crafted by locals, incense booths with smoke drifting up lazily before being swept away by the sea breeze, hand-created pokedolls. Brendan mused if he should buy one for May before he left. They stopped to watch a painter painting a smeargle drawing graffiti on a brick wall between yet another incense booth and a shop pawning off stone jewelery and calling it "Authentic Slateport Rock Jewelery."

Brendan finally found a taffy booth with a sign tacked to a pole saying prices were slashed in half (probably bullshit; sales are never sales but are just said to make people feel better about their purchases) and bought boxes for his dad and mom, May's family, and himself from a bored-looking woman wearing a large sunhat. The bored-looking saleslady seemed to be slightly amused by Sirius's nose poking up and inevitably being pushed back down by Brendan's hand like he was playing whack-a-mole and decided to throw the dog a taffy. Sirius trotted away happily as Brendan thanked the lady.

"Traffy," said Sirius happily, chewing with his mouth open and revealed the balled-up blue treat sticking to his teeth. Brendan reached down and affectionately rubbed the top of the pokémon's head.

The noise of tourists faded away the further they walked from the marketplace and more into the industry side of town: Brendan's destination. Mr. Briney was in one of those huge, corroding buildings; he could smell the rust in the air and noticed how wet the buildings looked from the ocean spray. He stopped at a street corner and looked at the signs – Main and Beach Blvd – before pulling out his pokenav from his pocket and reading the address for the building.

"We're on the right street at least," he said more to himself than to his pokémon who was busy trying to lick the taffy off his front teeth with an annoyed snarl. Brendan didn't bother to wait for the pedestrian sign to light up and continued on Beach Blvd; the streets were empty anyway. He could hear echoes of various sounds bouncing off the buildings, but he wasn't sure what they were.

"I think this is it," he remarked as he stood outside a warehouse with small boats and boat parts scattered across the clean, slick floor. He entered the shaded building through the open garage and looked at the sleek, shiny surfaces of boat panels that lay seemingly haphazardly across the floor (being the son of a professor, he knew that what appeared to be disorganization was, in fact, organization for, and only for, the person who lay them there, and god forbid if you touch and try "fix" it). There were steel workbenches with various boat parts on top of them, but no one was working at them.

Brendan walked toward the other exit; this one escaped toward the seas. He pressed his belly against the cold railing and leaned forward, the wind blowing straight into his face, looking down the wooden docks. They, too, seemed pretty empty until he saw an old man standing on the edge, a bird perched on his shoulder. He turned around, and Brendan caught his eyes. He waved and let out a hearty laugh.

"I was wondering when you were coming!" the man yelled. The bird on his shoulder flapped his wings, knocking his right wing against the old man's captain's hat.

Brendan waved back and ran his hand down the railing as he walked toward the wooden steps and carefully stepped down on them, noting how they creaked. He could see the water through the cracks in the planks of the dock and already felt himself getting seasick. Vision ... blurry ... head ... spinning. He tried to uncross his eyes and put on a watery smile.

Mr. Briney immediately saw through the charade and let out another laugh, clapping Brendan on the shoulder and making Brendan's wobbly legs even wobblier. "I forgot your sea legs are as strong as a newborn miltank calf."

Brendan nodded rapidly and widened his eyes, his cheeks sucked in.

"Come, lad. Let's get you back up."

**. . .**

The chatter was nonchalant at first. They were sitting at a round, glass table outside the warehouse. An umbrella was propped up in the center of the table and was opened, shading them from the harsh noon sun. Sirius was curled up near his feet underneath the table and asleep, his ears twitching. The moment would seem picturesque, him and his dog and discussing the weather with an old friend while sipping lemonade, but Brendan's attention drifted in and out despite his efforts to stare into the warm eyes of the old captain. He let out a small sigh and looked past Mr. Briney's head.

Mr. Briney seemed to notice this as he stared at Brendan who was resting his chin against a closed fist. "What's the matter, lad?" he asked, nose wrinkling with concern. He brushed his fingers through his snow-white beard. "You certainly aren't yourself, at least the boy I remember. How long has it been since we last saw each other?"

Brendan snapped his attention back toward the captain (and briefly wondered why the captain was here instead of on, well, his ship) and turned the corners of his mouth up in an attempt to smile. Memories flooded his brain of those simpler times. "At least a year," he answered. He sat back up and ran his right hand across his bandanna, feeling the worn cloth with his fingers. "It's definitely been a while."

"Have you changed that much in a year?" Mr. Briney bought his cup of lemonade toward him, smearing the ring of condensation on the glass table that had built up around his cup. He smiled to himself.

Brendan gave a one-shoulder shrug and looked down at the letter of recommendation Mr. Briney gave him moments earlier. "Probably. In ways I'm not even aware of I'm sure." He felt Sirius twitch and roll onto his side, landing on top of Brendan's left shoe.

Peeko swooped in and landed gracefully on Mr. Briney's shoulder, beak open but not letting out a squawk. The old captain grinned and petted the bird before reaching into the front pocket of his shirt and pulling out crackers wrapped in crinkly clear cellophane. "I've read," he said simply as he fed the bird a cracker. "Your journey seemed far from simple."

"It's like ..." Brendan trailed off and let out another sigh, leaning back in his chair and staring upward at the metal ribbing of the umbrella. He motioned his right hand and let it swirl in the air before pressing it against his face, letting his mouth fit between the gaps of his fingers. "It's like everything is slowly starting to catch up and just weighing me down. I've done a lot on my journey, a lot of mistakes. A lot I need to make up for. I'm trying to – and this," he nudged his head in the direction of the letter on the table, "is the start of it. I just ... I don't like the feeling. It's coming to terms with everything that has happened and it's just ... sad for me. I don't know."

Peeko hopped on the table, claws clicking on the glass, and poked Brendan's cup, crumbs of crackers falling out of her beak. "I feel old," Brendan concluded with a small nod of his head.

Mr. Briney wiggled his eyebrows and smiled smugly in Brendan's direction as Brendan blinked twice, shook his hands in front of him and recanted, "Wait, no. You know. Like ... uh–"

"You've felt like you've grown up."

"Yeah or like I need to. I'm not ready for it."

Mr Briney smiled grimly. "None of us are really," he whispered. "Now, my boy, I can't tell you what to do or what's right for your situation–"

"I wish you could," the trainer grumbled.

"–but don't stress yourself out. Remember to take care of yourself. One day at a time."

Peeko cawed in agreement.

"I don't think I have enough time for that."

Mr. Briney pushed his seat back and stood up. As if on cue, Peeko stretched her wings and flew back onto her owner's shoulder. "There's time for everything," he answered with a sly grin, "except for now. I'm sorry for cutting your visit so short, Brendan, but I'm afraid this old sea dog has to attend a meeting."

Brendan quickly scrambled to his feet, inadvertently kicking Sirius and waking the grumpy beast up. He swiped the letter off the table and nodded his head a few short times. "No, no, I didn't mean to take up your time. I know you're busy. And thank you again for writing me a recommendation."

"It was my pleasure." Mr. Briney looked at the letter clutched in the boy's hand and back up into his face. "Now, I'm sure it's against the rules for you to open that letter and read what I wrote"–Brendan saw the captain's eyes glint mischievously–"but don't forget who you were, and don't afraid of change either. Don't ever be afraid to ask."

"Ask what?"

Mr. Briney chuckled. "There you go. Good luck, Brendan."

Brendan watched the captain walk into in the warehouse and ascend a ladder (he was surprisingly agile for his age) as Sirius sat near his feet and pressed his nose into his trainer's leg. Brendan bent down a bit and gave the pokémon another comforting scratch behind his ears while listening to the wind whistle a lonely, high-pitched tune.

"Step one accomplished?" Sirius said questionably.

He looked down and gave the mightyena a shaky smile. "Yeah."

**. . .**

They found a few empty beach chairs away from, well, everything. It wasn't near the bonfire pits, wasn't near the pier, wasn't near the bathrooms (though Brendan wondered _why_ someone would want to sit near the bathroom). It was a lonely, quiet location, honestly, but it gave him some peace, some time to gather his thoughts. Maybe that was entirely the problem, though, him having the time to gather his thoughts. The busier he was, like when had all those chores back at home, the less chance he had to really think about his choices. It seemed like a good time to work on his thesis, but his laptop remained safely tucked away in the folds of his backpack propped up against his beach chair.

The plastic the beach chair was made out of was hot under his back, but he became accustom to it. The sun on his chest was starting to burn him up more anyway. He lamented at how pale his skin was – traveling for weeks on end only made his arms darker.

"It's like your body is a mirror," commented Sirius with a grin as he laid in the beach chair next to Brendan. "You're reflecting the sun right back."

"Shut up," he grumbled.

"I feel like you could cook them hooman foods on that skillet you call a chest. Oh, my god," he sat up, ears perked, tongue hanging out of his mouth, "can we try?"

Brendan sighed and turned his body toward Sirius. He pushed up the frames of his sunglasses and looked the pokémon straight in the face. "Did you not hear me?"

Sirius scoffed at the look. "Not over the sound of how awesome I am," he answered haughtily.

"Guh."

"That's not even a word. Talk to me when you can word."

Brendan simply stared at his pokémon as Sirius settled his head back down on his paws and closed his eyes. "I hate you sometimes," he muttered, throwing his shades back over his eyes and leaning back into his chair. He closed his eyes and let the sun soak into him like a blanket,

mistily wondering if he had applied enough sunscreen lotion, and he willed him to drift into a lazy sleep just to get his mind off of things. He wiggled his fingers, clenched his toes, furrowed his brow. Relax, he had to remind himself. He rolled his shoulders and demanded his limbs to go limp. From the loud but calm breaths being emitted by the beast next to him, he knew Sirius was asleep already. The pokémon could sleep through hurricanes.

_"You're a nostalgic I realized. A bad one, too."_

_"Aren't most people? At least now and then?"_

_"I suppose. But most people don't have a lot to regret like you do."_

_"Meaning?"_

_"Well, everyone else doesn't have regrets, some more than you. But you're a nostalgic: you long for the past."_

Brendan's clinched his eyes tighter to keep them shut, but he became more aware of the sun trying to shine through them. The conversation he had with Chris the day of their hearing with the Pokémon League Council had haunted him. It was a bad day, a day he wish he could have prevented – and he here was doing it again, doing exactly what Chris scolded him about: longing for the past so he could prevent the present. Things were so much simpler in retrospect. People were so much stupider in retrospect.

It was kind of like he was building a pyramid in reverse, where the top, the one sole problem that started it all, is at the bottom. Then, stupidly, he adds another layer of problem to try to fix the first problem, and then those problems are fixed by another layer of problems, and so on and so on until the pyramid is ready to spill all over the hot sand and sink. All the while, he's staring at it, wishing it to flip around while the pyramid keeps growing, and growing, and growing. It was enough for him not to pound his fists into the sides of his head and curse himself into oblivion.

Maybe the basic problem is that Brendan sucked ass at planning ahead. How many of his ideas were winged on the spot? All of them. He joined Team Magma on a whim. He asked out May on a whim. He quit his league battle on a whim – well, pressure from the crowd, but whatever. This, him trying to get an apprenticeship, was a step in the right direction, wasn't it? He was taking one good, solid idea and slowly working on it. The more he thought about it, the less of a bad idea it seemed; there were no negatives he could think of despite no-lifing this stupid thesis.

The solution to all his problems was so simple! It was thinking! Oh, not jumping at the first chance he–

Brendan opened his eyes when he felt someone's presence nearby and noticed that someone had cast their shadow over his body. His eyesight was a bit dazed and spotted from the sun glaring him in the face, but he knew whoever was standing over him was a girl. He lifted his shades, and his vision became clearer.

Short, dark hair. Long legs. Annoying giggle.

Courtney.

"Ahahaha," she laughed, lifting her sunglasses so they sat on top of her head. She put her hands on her hips and leaned forward. "It _is _you. Can't miss that white hair for the world. Thought it was a ghost of you, but apparently that's just your skin color."

Brendan had to tear his eyes away from Courtney's ... assets that she probably willingly waved in his face when she leaned over to look at him and grumbled, "I'm working on it. I'm surprised you're still out and about." He pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head as well, messing up his bandanna, and stared out toward the ocean.

Courtney adjusted the strap of her black bikini top before walking around Brendan's beach chair and collapsing into the empty one to the right of him. She hooked her thumbs on the corners of her shorts and closed her eyes, pointing her head up toward the sky. The wind ruffled her black hair. "Why's that?" she finally asked, cracking her eyelids a bit and revealing dark-brown eyes to the world. Her expression was that of amusement, corners of her mouth twisted up slightly.

"Being up there in Team Magma's ranks and all ..." He widened his eyes and sat up, looking back and forth to make sure no one was near. When he was sure they were alone, he leaned back and signed in relief, letting the sounds of squawking seabirds fill his ears.

"It was such a shame about that, no?" She waved her hand in the air lazily and dropped it back down to her bare stomach. "Maxie was hot."

He rubbed his lips together before stating, "I have no idea how to respond to that."

She grinned and twisted her body to face the boy, propping her head up with her hand. "I've been thinking about contacting some people in Team Magma, see where they are. I think it was just Maxie that got arrested, and I hear he's out on bail or something."

"You're shitting me," he muttered, turning his eyes toward her. "An ecoterrorist that was _this _close to destroying the world is out on bail?"

She flipped onto her belly and dragged her hand through the sand. "You can't be an ecoterrorist without the money to back it up, no? You'd just be a loon without it. But I don't know. I haven't really been following this legal mumble jumble crap, and apparently you haven't been either."

"I've been trying to push myself away from that part of my life," he murmured, wiping his thumb against his nose. "Plus I've been preoccupied. But tell me, have you contacted anyone?"

She pressed her pointer finger against her lips. "Not yet really. You don't exactly count as I just spotted you here. I've been trying to reach Tabitha. Maxie's right hand man, you know. Wanted to know if he's safe."

Brendan turned his head when he heard Sirius grumble and lift his head to stare at his trainer tiredly. He nudged his head in the direction of Brendan's water bottle, and Brendan nodded, scrambling through his bag to find a container that the pokémon could lap water out of. "I didn't know you cared," he said over the ruffling. He found a plastic cup bent in the middle and pulled it out. He popped out the center without a loud crack before opening his bottle and filling the cup up with water. Brendan placed the cup on the ground and piled sand around the sides so it wouldn't fall over on the lumpy surface, and when he looked up, he saw the dog glare at him. "It'll fall over on the chair," he argued. "We're on break, not on vacation. Get over it."

Sirius huffed but bent his head over all the same to lap up the refreshment.

"Nice mightyena," Courtney commented. "He's grown since the last time I've saw him."

"Mm. Anyone else?"

"I figured you could tell me. Chris was your mentor in the team and you two got pretty close. You two still talking?"

"You could say that. But yeah, we still talk. He's on a cruise now."

She kicked a leg back into the air, squeezing her toes so her flip-flop wouldn't fly off. "I saw," she began, closing her eyes, a dreamy expression on her face as she dropped her foot, "that battle in the league between you two. Nice choke."

He bit his lip and scrunched his nose and tried not to snap at her. "You don't get it."

"Sure I do. I'm one of two people you know that actually gets it." She rolled back onto her front, kicked her legs over the side of the chair, and sat up straight. Brendan sat up, too, back hunched, hands clasped together. "And boo hoo. You were 'rumored' to be associated with Team Magma. Big deal."

"It's different," he complained. "I–"

"Got family to impress, friends that counted on you, blah, blah, blah. You think you're so special?" She winked at him. "What I don't understand is why you joined in the first place?"

His mind raced through ways to phrase his answer. _I was tricked. I thought it would be a good idea. I wanted to be a hero._ "I didn't think it all the way through." It was honest at least. "It sounded like a good idea at the time – Maxie sold it to me like that – but the more I learned about the team's ideals, the more I disagreed with them."

She snorted. "I'm sure it was all you and not Chris or the others telling you what to do."

He paused and thought. His opinion on the team did change the minute Chris entered his life. Was he persuaded that easily? Granted, Chris did give him more information about the evils of Team Magma, and there was no chance in hell that he would ever, EVER go back to agreeing with Team Magma's ideals, but he was so quick to believe Chris. Why?

"Such a special little snowflake, Chris," she added, raising an eyebrow, "trying to stand up to such an 'evil' force. It fed him, right? Protected him, right? Gave him ample tools to train his pokémon, right? Tried to put himself in a position of power, that Chris. I think he just hates being bossed around. But hell if I know about his little 'rebellion' and what he was trying to do with it. He sabotaged no plans, so it can't be that. Don't think he really challenged Maxie. I just think he's an attention whore."

"You sound bitter," he muttered, still looking down. He felt anger bubbling up that she was insulting his best friend, but his mind was reeling about the information.

"They were kiss-ups, him, Tabitha. They both liked being leaders, but Tabitha wanted Maxie's position; Chris wanted something else. I'm pissed that those two were the higher-ups. I tried, you know." She tossed her head back, hair flicking back as well. "But whatever."

"Well, what about you?" he challenged, sitting up straight and glaring at her smug face. "Why did you join? Why did you want to be on top?"

She licked her lips, eyes glinting dangerously, and said, "Because I could. And because I deserve to be on top."

Courtney ... Courtney something – Brendan never caught her last name – ex-Team Magma admin, and a high-ranked one at that, only being surpassed by Tabitha and Chris. He met her a few times but only worked on one mission together, the weather institute where she battled and lost, if Brendan recalled correctly, to May. Her and Tabitha seemed to be close – they had matching laughs and everything – despite being so opposite in attitude. Hot as hell. Hates taking orders. Snarky. "She's a spicy one," Chris said about her while they had some downtime on a mission. "Frankly, I'm not sure how she rose so high up, or why she's even here."

"That's it?" he asked bewilderingly, blinking a few times.

"I'm sure there's other reasons," she said casually, looking up at the sky to watch wingull circle above her head. "I just don't remember them – or care. Money, probably. Past is past anyway."

"Past is prologue," he remarked.

"Not for me." She grinned and stood back up. "Look, you're obviously not doing anything, and it's hot as hell here. Not unless you plan on ditchin' me, I suggest me and you go swimming and beat this heat."

He looked her up and down but didn't say anything.

"What?" she said, popping her weight to her left leg. "You gotta do something?"

Loads, he thought, like work on my paper and head over to the battle tent in a few hours. But as she raised her arms over her head, stood on the tippy-toes of her long legs, and released a quiet sigh of relief through her pouty lips as she stretched her limbs, toned stomach sucking in, all of those thoughts raced out of his head like an open faucet. Dear god, he thought while goggling, you know who you're looking at right? This was the annoying but mysterious Admin Courtney that barely obeyed Chris's orders (and hated Chris apparently), had a like-hate relationship with Tabitha, and hinged on Maxie's every word. You have a kind-of-sort-of-not-really-girlfriend. You have things to do, people to see. You were on the right track. What about thinking, Brendan? What about not jumping on the first thing you saw, Brendan?"

"Well?" she asked again, crossing her arms and creating more noticeable cleavage.

"Yeah, nothing to do, let's go," he answered, jumping up and alarming Sirius next to him.

Thinking sucks anyway.


End file.
